


Mirror Pair

by dustbunnyprophet



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Coming of Age, Depression, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, future Milabek, lots of skating, past Jean-Jacques Leroy/Isabella Yang
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-09-18 16:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 100,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9392702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbunnyprophet/pseuds/dustbunnyprophet
Summary: There is always the ice. When everything else fails there is always the ice.The GPF in Marseille changes everything.A slowburn fic spanning from the season after Barcelona to the Olympics and beyond. A story of coming of age and falling in love somewhere along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

_“And in my heart, if calm at all,_ _  
_ _If any calm, a calm despair:”_

_Lord Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam A.H.H._

 

The spring air was pleasantly warm. Shy rays of sunlight were peeking through the clouds, turning the budding leaves a vibrant green. The light morning mist glowed between the tree trunks. Isabella’s lips curled into the ghost of a smile as the watched the dew glitter on the blades of grass. The park looked so peaceful early in the morning. Every now and then birds chirped in the distance, their song mixing with the crunching of the gravel under their feet.

JJ was walking by her side, hands tucked into the pocket of his red hoodie, light jacket unzipped in the mild weather. He looked deep in thought, blue eyes staring ahead with a smile of contentment. She was used to see him like this and it made her heart tug painfully.

She felt so selfish.

Isabella sighed silently, trying to banish the sadness away, one leisurely step on the gravel after the other. She had made her mind. It had not been an easy decision, but in the end she could no longer lie to herself and everyone around her. To JJ.

Her shoulders slumped minutely and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, watching the path ahead. It winded gracefully through a thicket of trees and towards a small pond. The morning sun shimmered on the water, glowing with a promise of warmth. Of long spring afternoons and summer nights spent idling on a blanket strewn on the grass. Of precious memories to be treasured.

She felt wistfulness knot tightly inside her. Things had used to be as simple as a stroll through the park. Fifteen year old and crazy in love, holding JJ’s hand while they walked under the shade of the century old trees. She could not have imagined that the easy contentment of a life filled with small things would grow too small for her. That giggling at his antics, leaning on his shoulder while they watched a movie, standing proudly by his side while he revelled in the spoils of yet another victory, would one day not be enough.

The ring around her finger felt like a dead weight, pulling her under.

Where had it all gone? Where had gone that all-encompassing sense of rightness which had followed her throughout the three years she had spent by JJ’s side? She had been asking herself those questions for the past four months and yet she could not pinpoint the moment it had all began to dim.

There was sadness tugging at her heartstrings, and she looked down, watching her shoes tread on the gravel.

“What is it, Izzy?” JJ’s voice made her lift her head.

His brow was furrowed in concern. Isabella gave him a small smile, but even as her lips moved, she knew it must have come out as a grimace. She shook her head lightly, but JJ stepped closer, cupping her cheek with his hand. His eyes were filled with worry.

It broke her heart.

She still cared for him, deeply. But not in the way he deserved. Not in the way a future wife should love her husband to be. And for all that it would hurt, it would not be fair to deceive him, to hold tight onto him because he had become the closest person in her life. He deserved to be loved, completely, with abandon. Isabella could not give him that.

“Why don’t we sit down.” she told him in a small voice, glancing towards one of the benches that lined the path.

“Izzy?” he said, deepening his frown.

“Please.” she gripped his wrist and he let his hand fall down with a nod.

She rolled her ring with her thumb as they made their way to the nearest bench and sat down. JJ gently gripped her hand, twining their fingers. She squeezed his palm, lingering for a moment. The ring glittered in the morning sunlight, the diamond catching the light and breaking it into a thousand shimmers.

Like it had shone that night at the banquet in Barcelona, a flute of champagne resting lightly between her fingers. It had been that instant, when she had looked at her hand, the platinum band and the diamond ring glittering on her pale skin, and she had realised _this_ was not the life she wanted.

She still remembered it with perfect clarity, the breathless moment the music had dimmed to background noise and reality had sunk in. After three years spent next to this amazing person, this sweet and caring boy who had grown into a talented man, dedicated to his skating, his family, her, Isabella had realised she no longer loved him the way he deserved.

Squaring her jaw Isabella extricated her hand from his hold, folding it on her lap.

“JJ.” she began, gazing into his concerned eyes “I… I’ve been thinking a lot since Barcelona.”

He looked at her intently, giving her the space to speak. And she almost hated herself in that moment. Knowing that she had accepted his proposal, that she had made him dream of a future for them. Of a family with her. Only to refuse it.

Because in the end it was simple enough. She did not want it. She did not want to be his wife.

She closed her eyes for a moment. Then, she opened them and slid the ring off her finger.

“I’m sorry, JJ.”  she told him, looking at his confused and mildly alarmed expression, and placed the ring on his palm “I’m sorry, I really am. But I don’t want to marry you.”

 

The breeze smelled of salt. It blew cold against the exposed skin of his face, whispering under the hood of his jacket. Jean walked down the street, drowning in the sounds of the city, the cawing of the seagulls, the rumbling of cars, the oddly accented French of the street vendors as they opened shop. It was early still, too early to be up on the day of the short program, but after waking from yet another nightmare, Jean had gotten dressed and sneaked out of the hotel. He needed to clear his head. The memory of his flubbed short program at the GPF in Barcelona, was still too raw in his mind. Jean would never forgive himself another subpar performance. Not when he was ready. With a strong routine. A winning one that had secured his entrance in the finals.

He only needed to get a hold on his nerves.

Lately it had grown harder to do so. His smiles and cheerful attitude only lasted so long before the numbness crept in.

He shook his head lightly, watching the sky above. It was a dull grey above the harbour, slashed here and there by the masts of the sailing boats that rocked in the breeze. He trudged forward, watching the city around him without really seeing it. It was the first time Jean was competing in Marseille, and any other year he would have been excited at the prospect of exploring a new city. It was one of the perks of competitive figure skating he had always loved with a childish glee. But for all that he tried, Jean could not find it in himself to feel anything but a dull emptiness.

It had been so since April. Since Isabella had left and Jean had found himself lost. She had been by his side for so long he had never questioned it. He had never even imagined there could come a day she would not be there. She would not walk by his side while he explored yet another city, while he filled his phone with photos of bright smiles and marvellous landmarks.

It had felt like losing footing on a jump on the touchdown and crashing down onto the ice head-first. And the bruises refused to fade, memories and shattered hopes expanding under his breastbone until he could no longer breathe. And when they inevitably receded only emptiness remained.

So Jean had thrown himself into skating with a single-minded focus. And for all the long months of training and competing, he had been able to hold onto that drive. He had sweated and bled on the ice, but he had brought home two gold medals, winning both the NHK and Skate America by a wide margin. The press acclaimed it as his best season yet. But the victories tasted like ashes on his tongue. All he could do was plunge forward. To the finale.

And yet, instead of being fuelled by adrenaline, striving for that GPF gold he had craved for so long and against the best competition ever, what with Victor Nikiforov back in the game and both Yuri Plisetsky and Katsuki Yuuri making it to the finals, Jean had woken that morning feeling devoid of any emotion other than the dread of failing. And even that had washed off, leaving him merely drained.

He stopped at a zebra crossing and waited for the green light before he resumed his aimless wandering. The streets of Marseille winded around him, tall buildings lined one next to the other. He passed by the large windows brightly illuminated with Christmas decorations and flakes of fake snow, coffee shops and bakeries. The smell of pastries and fresh bread mingled with the tang of salt and smog as the city woke up and the traffic grew thicker.

As he crossed yet another street Jean decided it was time to get back to the hotel. If his parents found him missing they would fret, and he had no desire to explain. To see the sad expression on his mother’s face. He had disappointed her more than enough.

He sighed, fishing out his phone from the pocket and looked on the map for the shortest route to the hotel. After a moment he pocketed his phone and veered left in a narrower street. There were more passers by as he kept walking, men and women sharply dressed who hurried to work with their briefcases and purses. He walked past a bank and then further ahead next to more shops.

The sun was breaching through the clouds by the time Jean reached the hotel. Glancing at his watch he realised it was already breakfast time. There was no point in going back to his room. With a weary sigh he walked towards the dining hall and plastered a smile on his face, bracing himself for the long day ahead.

 

A seductive voice crooned from the loudspeakers, filling the cold dome of the arena with velvety notes that trailed one after the other. The bright red flags swayed in tune with the music, the white crosses becoming waves, only to stop in breathless anticipation as the skater moved into a mohawk before he leapt into a quad loop. And nailed it.

Yuri leaned back on his seat in the stands, pulling his hood further up his head while he watched the performance below. The arena was cold and the chill of the ice seeped through his jacket with a comforting familiarity. His senses were always sharper in the chill of a rink, mind blank for nothing but the cutting of blades on the ice.

Christophe Giacometti was finishing his routine, his tight sequined costume emphasising his provocative motions. A spin and then he stopped with a sway of his hips, angling his body in a pin-up worthy pose that made Yuri roll his eyes. The arena erupted in cheers and he found himself reluctantly clapping along.

For all the penchant to predictably eroticise his skating, the Swiss had skated better than he had ever seen him do, upping the difficulty of his jumps. It had been a bold routine, and Yuri had begrudgingly liked it. Mila was cheering beside him, excitedly chattering with the sane half of the Crispino twins. The two giggled as they commented upon Chris’ performance.

It was certainly far more impressive than it had seemed on the videos from the Rostelecom and the NHK. For a skater who had always lived in the shadow of stronger rivals like Victor or that Canadian idiot, Yuri had not expected this. He felt his lips pull into a small smile.

He enjoyed good competition almost as much as he enjoyed winning.

And so far this season was something else. Everyone was more dedicated, performing routines much more complex than they were used to. Victor was back in the game, probably for his last season. No one was going to miss a chance at trying their hand against his skill.

It pissed Yuri off that it took Victor for them to give their best, but he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he too had put every ounce of energy in his program this year. After Worlds he had allowed himself only a week of rest before he had begun training in earnest, fighting against his body which had decided to add a fucking inch to his height. It had been gruelling work to relearn figures and jumps he could execute in his sleep, but with the added boon of competing against Victor, Yuri had pushed himself to his limits and beyond. When he hadn’t skated he had worked on his ballet figures, pushing his muscles and tendons close to the snapping point. All to keep his flexibility. To be able to do a Biellmann without a sweat, to drop his back into an Ina Bauer where his hands nearly touched the ice while he glided like a feather.

He had sacrificed every waking hour to his training. But it had paid off. He had won gold on the Cup of China with more than ten points of difference. And while he had not managed to score better than Victor at Skate Canada, getting silver by a small margin, it had fuelled his determination.

This GPF was the chance to best the living legend, the chance to outdo him. And he would. He would show Victor what he was capable of.

He would win.

The alternative was not something he managed to contemplate. It reminded him of those weightless moments before falling asleep when the world seemed to shrink and squeeze his windpipe. When the silver threads of his thoughts would fray and scatter into the choking fear of not being enough.

In the morning he would always feel the aftershocks linger in the muscles of his hands. And he would firmly plant his nails into the palm of his shaking hands and push himself so hard on the rink and the barre that everything but the constant ache of his muscles and tendons was forgotten.

A surprised gasp from Mila tore him from his musings and he pulled his jacket tighter around himself, trying to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the ice. He lifted his eyes to the screen with a scowl. Only to see Otabek skating towards the middle of the rink.

Yuri suddenly jumped to his feet, all worries locked away in the wake of excitement. He placed his palms next to his mouth

“Beka, _davai!_ ” he hollered from the top of his lungs, looking at his friend down on the ice.

Otabek gave him a thumbs up, lips pulled in a grim line as he took his position. Yuri settled back on his chair, leaning his elbows on his knees while he waited for the short program to begin. He couldn’t wait to see him begin his routine. He had seen him at the Cup of China, but they had been in the same group and Yuri had not been able to pay attention as much as he had wanted.

He could still remember standing there on the edge of the rink, wrapped up into his nerves, with the sharp sting of disappointment at the realisation that he had zoned out at some point, too wrapped up in his fucking nerves. But Beka deserved better. He was his friend after all. He _wanted_ to be Yuri’s friend. He was not going to miss a single step this time.

He waited with bated breath for the music to start. And then the first notes trailed into the air, quiet, almost a whisper of violins. Otabek began to glide on the ice, a bracket turn and then he was hydroblading. A spread eagle and then suddenly, the sharp strokes of cellos sliced the air. Otabek moved into a back crossover before he leapt up into a quad Salchow followed by a double toe.

The music edged on with a promise of violence in the notes that made Yuri hold his breath as he watched Otabek mercilessly carve the ice. The chorus sung into a crescendo as he rose into a triple Axel and landed it smoothly. A crossover that glided into a brief Ina Bauer and then a combination spin. Otabek was owning the ice in a way Yuri hadn’t seen him do since the GPF in Barcelona. They had competed together at the Cup of China and even if Otabek had won a silver to Yuri’s gold, he had not been so determined in his motions.

A serpentine step sequence and then a quad toe-loop. He moved into a flying spin. Yuri could not take his eyes off him. No one could. Another step sequence before he spun into a camel spin that slowed down along with the music.

A moment of silence preceded the excited cheers of the public. Mila was yelling loudly by his side, jumping up and down in excitement. Katsudon and Victor who sat nearby were gaping at the Kazakh skater who was panting in the middle of the rink.

He watched Otabek go to the kiss and cry, hugging yet another plushie bear. The results came up and he scored six points more than Chris.

“Well done, Beka.” he muttered to himself, curling his lips into a smile.

All too soon the announcer was calling out the last skater of the first group, and Yuri’s flash of good mood vanished. The third one to perform was the self proclaimed King, who was grinning at the camera with his stupid air of superiority. It irked Yuri to even see him on a screen. He had half a mind to just leave and begin working on his warm-up. If he never saw Leroy’s trademark pose again it would be too soon.

But he did need to see the competition, he reminded himself with a sour twist of his lips, as he slumped back onto the plastic seat. Leroy had won two golds and the media were acclaiming this as the Canadian’s best season. Yuri couldn’t stand the obnoxious shithead, but he _had_ to know who he was competing against.

He flipped out his phone while the announcer kept talking about that moron. Yuri kept scrolling idly through his notifications, waiting for the music to begin. Deafening shouts filled the arena and Yuri supposed the Canadian dickhead had walked out into the rink. He lifted his eyes to the screen for a moment and regretted it, catching Leroy just as he was crossing his arms in his stupid pose. Thankfully the notes of a piano softly thrummed out of the loudspeakers and Leroy stood still.

A beat. Two.

And then he was moving, gliding gracefully on the ice in a spread eagle. A step sequence, delicate like the music. Then a camel spin and a counter as the music began to pick up. A step sequence that lifted Leroy into a quad Lutz. He jumped high, his hands perfectly aligned as he rotated. The beat was now fast, uplifting where before it had been almost sad and Yuri watched mesmerised the older skater spin in a blur of vibrant blue and then enter a combination jump. His skates barely touched the ice before he was back into the air.

Yuri watched him, tense in his seat. A triple Axel. With another flawless landing. Leroy was good. Too good. His jumps were perfect and his arms neatly lifted high above his head. He had not made a single mistake yet, and unless he flubbed something badly in the remaining portion of the routine, Yuri was certain he would score far more than Otabek and Chris had. Leroy was serious competition this year.

It only meant Yuri would have to be better.

The Canadian rolled out of sit spin and slowly brought his performance to an end. He dropped to his knees and kissed the ice while the crowd began cheering in ecstasy. Shouts of “It’s JJ style!” filled the arena and Yuri curled his lip in disgust.

He waited for the results to confirm what he had already known, and then he made himself scarce. He had to get ready to show them all what he could do.

That gold would be his.

 

The sound of his footsteps echoed on the stairs, breaking the mellow notes of the music coming from the arena. Jean looked at the screen of his phone, following Katsuki’s routine as he made his way to the stands. He had lingered after his performance, dealing with the excitement of his fans less half-heartedly than he had done before in the season. His short had been flawless and Jean still rode the high of adrenaline.

He emerged on the stands and took a seat next to Chris who flashed him a smile and a wink before training his eyes back on the Japanese skater. Jean pocketed the phone and snuggled into the warmth of his jacket, exhaustion buzzing pleasantly through his muscles.

Katsuki was in the second half of his program, doing his jumps. His stamina was unbelievable. And coupled with the grace of his movement, it made Jean almost envy him. He had never had the body to move with such fluidity. His strengths lay elsewhere, though.

A sit spin marked the end of Yuuri’s performance and Jean rose to his feet to cheer him along with the other skaters. The Japanese man skated to the exit and was immediately swept into an embrace by Victor. Chris laughed, shaking his head at the couple’s antics. And Jean forced his lips into a small smile.

Something familiar ached under his breastbone. And he tried to push it back. Back into the emptiness that always lingered just beyond the edge of his thoughts.

He could still recall how it had been to exit the rink after a performance, panting and grinning only to find himself enveloped in Isabella’s arms. To hold her close, inhaling the floral scent of her shampoo and squeezing her tight before going to the kiss and cry.

Suddenly he was forcibly pulled from his thoughts by Altin shouting  

“Yura, _davai_!” and Jean looked at the rink.

Down on the ice, Yuri Plisetsky was taking position. His bony chin was pointed upwards, his body poised ready to spring and yet delicate all the same. Clad in a pale green costume, the Russian looked almost ephemeral, a deceptive gentleness in his motions as the music started that belied his abrasive character.

Outside the ice, Yuri was like an alley cat, sharpened claws ready to draw blood, and a scowl permanently etched on his face. But as he flexed into a Biellmann worthy of a female skater, Plisetsky seemed frail like a spring blossom. He leapt into a combination jump that gave the illusion of his blades never touching the ice. A delicate step sequence in tune with the violin plucking its notes before picking pace once again. The blond hair waved like sunlight under the water as the ponytail whipped left and right in his motions.

The announcer had said the Russian’s theme this year was “Yearning”, and Jean could see it in the way the sequences were arranged, the hydroblading that led into a spin made him think of hands trying to reach for something so close and yet so far away. It made him think of the weight of a ring placed in his palm, the warmth of Isabella’s skin disappearing in the spring morning chill. He watched Plisetsky perform a perfect triple Axel and as the piano increased in tempo, Jean finally named the gaping hole in his chest.

He missed her. Terribly, painfully, he still missed Isabella. But longing had turned to grief at some point and Jean knew he would have to sever the ties that bound him to a life that now existed only is his dreams. There would be no future together, no white picket fence house in the suburbs, not for them.

It was time to say goodbye.

Yuri finished with an outstretched hand, eyes closed almost sorrowfully. And as the crowd erupted in a supernova of cheer, Jean rose to his feet and joined the clapping and cheering of his fellow skaters.

When the score appeared, setting Plisetsky in the lead, Jean felt his lips pull into the first sincere grin in a long while. Yuri deserved to win.

 

His muscles were sore and he felt exhaustion coil around his bones, but Yuri knew that he was still too keyed up to sleep. Which was why he had accepted Victor’s excited invitation to join them on a collective dinner with the other skaters.

The small restaurant was cosy. With its low vaulted ceilings and orange light, it gave an air of quiet familiarity. There was music playing in the background, a female voice which softly sung in French. Every now and then Yuri could hear it above the voices and the clinking of cutlery. It reminded him of a cat’s purr. Idly he thought about Shapka who was probably sleeping on the couch in Moscow. He had adopted the tabby cat when he had been five, and Shapka looked as old as his Grandfather now. But her claws were still sharp when she would snuggle on his lap and purr.

Yuri felt the ghost of a smile on his lips and made sure to hide it behind his long curtain of hair. It would not do for the others to think he was having fun. Because he definitely _wasn’t_. Recollections about his cat aside, the only reason why he wasn’t snapping at everyone in boredom, was the weariness of a really challenging performance he had completed just hours before.

Yuri scowled at his plate. Otabek, who was sitting next to him, had ditched Yuri after the first course to talk with Mila. The betrayal had stung a bit, but Yuri could not begrudge Beka for wanting to be happy. The redhead had made her interest in the Kazakh clear ever since the last GPF, flirting shamelessly with Otabek and peppering Yuri with questions about him that irritated him to no end.

It used to squeeze Yuri’s chest almost painfully. Seeing the light flush on the other skater’s cheeks every time Yuri complained about Mila. Knowing that Beka would never feel that flutter in his stomach for Yuri. That he would not wake up after a dream aching to touch, to taste. To kiss. It had taken months of gruelling self-loathing and nearly all of his willpower to strangle that emotion, etching it in the pulling of his tendons and the throbbing of his muscles. But in the end his yearning for victory had been stronger than anything else.

And bit by bit Yuri had dug out every tiny shard from his chest. Until nothing but the smooth surface of the ice remained.

Otabek was his friend. His first and perhaps only true friend. He deserved to be happy.

Which did not curb Yuri’s annoyance at having been left at the mercy of a distinctly drunk Victor and an embarrassed Katsudon who was trying to stop his fiancé from undressing, while Chris alternated between taking pictures and teasing. Yuri was not even considering the option of talking with the Canadian idiot who sat just farther across the table, chatting with Sara who had come to Marseille sans her creepy brother. Crispino had badly injured his leg at the Rostelecom and was in no fit state to travel.

Yuri stabbed another piece of meat with his fork, putting it in his mouth. It was good. And if Victor had not proceeded to yell “ _Vkusno!_ ” at every bite, Yuri might have even conceded to praise them for the choice of restaurant. But as it happened, Yuri kept gloomily quiet, every now and then rolling his eyes at the older skaters’ antics. Sometimes he wondered if he was the only reasonable person there.

Other times he wondered if there was something wrong with him when everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves so easily. Everyone but him.

He could distract himself only for so long before he was once again thinking about the three points of difference between Victor and himself in the short. He had to execute his free to perfection if he wanted a shot to his second gold at the GPF. Especially since he had gained second place by a decimal difference with Leroy.

A pinprick of dread stung him in the chest and Yuri shook his head, gripping the fork in his hand until he could feel the metal biting into his skin. He was too tired to deal with this. Yuri knew if he allowed his mind to run free it would stretch him to the snapping point. He had to get a grip of himself.

He stabbed the meat on his plate with his fork, taking another bite.

It tasted like ashes but he swallowed it nonetheless. He kept eating the gravy soaked meat with vegetables until he began to feel its rich taste and the dread receded. He thought idly how he would have to tell his Grandfather about the dish. Maybe he could make _pirozhki_ with it.

Slowly clearing his plate Yuri switched his focus to the conversations around him. The ebb and flow of voices that resounded off the vaulted ceilings. The huffs of laughter, the occasional giggle.

“JJ, your sister is in the Junior Division, _vero_?” Sara asked, and Yuri turned his attention to their conversation.

“Yeah, she is.” the Canadian dickhead replied with his trademark grin “She hopes she’ll make it to the Senior Division next year.”

“That would be great!” Sara exclaimed “If she’s as good as you, it will be fierce competition.”

The Canadian laughed loudly, and Yuri scowled. Did he always have to be so annoyingly boisterous?

“I’m not sure she’ll be debuting next year.” Leroy said “Mom is not sure Mélanie is ready...”

Yuri’s head snapped up.

“Mélanie Leroy is your _sister_?” he interrupted him and the Canadian turned his head in his direction.

“Yeah. You know her?” he asked Yuri with a puzzled frown.

“No.” Yuri bit back “But I saw her perform.”

Then he added without vitriol

“She’s very good. l like her step sequences. And she’s got strength. I think she could pull triples easily enough.”

Leroy listened to him with a genuinely pleased expression that held nothing of the usual cockiness. It made Yuri uncomfortable. He was used to the self proclaimed King acting like the arrogant prick he was. But this? His lips were pulled into a beaming smile and his wide eyes were glistening with pride.

“Mél will be happy to hear that!” he exclaimed, then laughing he added “She’s quite a fan of yours. Her room is plastered with your posters.”

Jean eyed the younger skater, who was staring at him dumbfounded.

“A fan.” the blond said.

“One of, how are they called? Yuri’s Angels.” he couldn’t resist the urge to tease him and Plisetsky’s lips predictably curled into a scowl.

“Yuri’s not fond of his fans.” Sara butted in with a huff of laughter “Didn’t Altin have to rescue you from them in Barcelona?”

Yuri’s face darkened. A quip about damsels in distress was on the tip of Jean’s tongue. But his heart wasn’t in it. Instead he said

“They are pretty violent. You should have seen them at Skate America last year, they almost got into a fight with my fans because I won.” Sara looked at him with a disbelieving smile, while Yuri snorted.

“Lilia keeps telling me I should be nice to them.” he told them with a deep scowl.

“Well, we can’t all be blessed with JJ’s Girls, right?” he said with a wink and the Russian rolled his eyes but did not bite back.

 

The morning after the short program dawned clear, sunlight brightly coming through the windows of Yuri’s room. He had been awake for several hours now, idly wasting his time on social media. Yakov had forced him take the morning off to rest before the practice that afternoon. The free skate would be the next day and while Yuri would have wanted to practice more, Yakov refused to let him push himself too far. He wanted him fresh and rested for the free.

He scrolled down his instagram, looking at the photos of the dinner. Most of them were less than flattering for Victor, and Yuri took pleasure in voicing his opinion on his rinkmate’s gross antics in the comments. Like it wasn’t enough that he had to see the two of them nearly everyday at the rink now that Victor was back in Russia, Yuuri in tow. This was just more than he could tolerate.

Otabek always scolded him with his patient tone, telling him the two of them were just happy. That it was nice they could express it. Coming from the most stoic person Yuri knew, it always made him cock his eyebrow and roll his eyes.

He scrolled further until he reached a picture of himself speaking to Sara and the Canadian dickhead. Although Yuri supposed he could call him by his name just this once, he _had_ been surprisingly bearable the evening before. If he hadn’t known how absolutely annoying the older skater was, Yuri would have almost considered him pleasant company. It was unnerving.

He debated for a moment whether to like the photo. He did not want Leroy to think they were friendly or anything. Yuri couldn’t stand him on principle.

Still, the photo had a flattering angle.

He put a like on it.

 

Friday had passed in a blur. Jean had practiced, skyped his siblings home in Montreal and had been subjected to squeals of delight from his sister when he had told her about Yuri’s compliments. Talking to Tommy and Mél had lifted Jean’s spirits. His brother and sister had the uncanny ability of banishing all his worries. With their cheerful attitude and their childish glee they would manage to lift his mood even when everything seemed bleak.

Jean smiled fondly, toweling his hair dry. It was perhaps a bit too early to go to sleep, but he had to compete tomorrow and rest would not hurt him. He sat down on the edge of his bed, taking his phone to look at the video they had sent him. The two of them were fooling around in the snow, the dog chasing them, while their aunt who must have been the one to film it, chuckled in the background. His nearly fourteen year old sister rolled in the snow, making snow angels and Jean felt a pang of nostalgia hit him square in the chest. It had been so long since he had had the time to be silly.

Ever since his junior days Jean had dedicated himself to his career. Even music had become a business at some point, losing the spontaneity it had used to have. He was glad Mél was not like him. She was very good at skating, Yuri had assessed her right, but for all that she loved competing, she was still skating because she liked it, because she had fun. Like Tommy did.

Jean had stopped having fun even before his Senior debut. Skating was his profession. And winning his goal. It was simple.

It was disenheartening when he allowed himself to think about it.

He leaned back on the mattress, looking at the ceiling, the damp towel thrown on the bed next to him. He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment.

Jean loved winning. He always had. The feeling of a gold medal around his neck could not compare to anything. But at the same time it felt like a noose around his neck, ever tightening. He was never satisfied. He never felt the completion he should. Victory was only reminder he had more to win, that he had more to prove.

To whom, though?

He opened his eyes. And wished for a brief moment he could be like his sister. A heartbeat came and went. And with it the vague impressions of what could have been, of who he could have been, dazed daydreams that felt wrong under his skin.

He could wish as much as he wanted, but Jean knew he could never be like Mél.

He was just not like that. The desire to win, the ambition to be the best was woven in every cell of his being. He could not escape it the same way he could not change his eye colour. He could only live with it.

And learn to be happy.

 

The streets of Marseille were quiet in the dead of the night. Dawn was still a few hours away, but Yuri had been unable to fall back asleep, and after pacing the length of his hotel room too many times to count he had put his jogging gear on and exited the hotel.

The cold air whipped his face and his hair was plastered on his forehead but he felt great. The rhythmic thumping of his trainers on the tarmac was soothing in a way only the sound of his blades on ice could surpass. But there was no way he could get on a rink in the middle of the night. So running it was.

He sped past parked cars and garbage bins, the odd drunkard wobbling on their feet. Every now and then the music from a night club would filter out on the otherwise quiet streets. The sound of his steps was louder still in his ears. And he relished it.

His body felt pleasantly warm under his windstopper. His muscles supple and ready to give more. He increased his speed minutely, not wanting to overexert himself the night before the free skate. Yakov would never let him live it down if he pulled a muscle. And he didn’t even want to imagine Lilia’s face.

The former ballerina was a force to be reckoned with. Even Yakov was cowed in her presence.

Crossing the street and veering into another one, Yuri let every thought of his coaches slide past. In the silence and darkness of Marseille there was no one to breath down his neck, no one to worry, no one to yell at him, no one to reprimand him on his behaviour or his performance. There was only the late autumn chill on his skin and the smell of the sea mingling with the grime of the city.

Solitude was a blanket, a comfortable place where he could be alone with his thoughts. It was the most familiar thing, the closest companion he had had growing up. And for all that he held his friendship with Beka close to his heart, Yuri still loved his moments alone. Loved the solitude. The silence.

Being around people like Victor or Mila who were loud and intrusive was tiring. He always had to be on the outlook, always be ready to defend himself. Because they might see it as friendliness, but Yuri found their antics annoying at best. They always poked and prodded, always wanted to know, to provoke. It was like they could not imagine someone might not want to spill their heart there and then just because they asked.

In a way Katsudon was the only tolerable one of the bunch. The Japanese was quiet and reserved, never bothering Yuri. But where Yuuri went, Victor followed and suddenly everything turned loud and bright and Yuri’s hackles were raised.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of all the thoughts. His rinkmates and fellow skaters occupied enough of his time already. He really didn’t need to think about them in the dead of the night while he ran.

He reached the harbour and slowed down, listening to the quiet crashing of waves and the rattle of the boats. There was something calming about the sea. The ebb and flow of waves, the coldness of the water on his skin when he would touch it with his fingers. And the smell of salt, which reminded him oh home.

Yuri may had been born in Moscow, but he had spent most of his life training in Saint Petersburg, and in spite of being alone in the northern city, his Grandfather and cat miles and miles away, the city on the Neva bay was home. With its large harbour and the chill of the Baltic Sea. With its white nights when the sun would never properly set, leaving the sky a milky white throughout the night. Or the polar nights when there was barely any daylight before everything plummeted in long, endless darkness.

It was home.

Yuri smiled minutely, shaking his head. Then, he trudged on, regaining his pace. There were still many hours until dawn. And many more streets to pass through.  

Many more miles to go.

 

The lights were blinding. He could feel the chill of the ice on his face. Jean closed his eyes and listened to the fast pace of his heartbeat while he waited for the music to start. This was it. He would either make it or fail. It was all in his hands.

The first notes trickled softly and Jean opened his eyes, moving in a soft glide across the ice. Last year his short had been disastrous because his nerves had gotten the best of him. But the feeling of the ice hitting his knees when he had knelt in front of the crowd seeking penance had been etched into his mind. It had been humbling, to know he was his own worst competition. To know the ice would not forgive him his arrogance.

The piano gained speed and Jean leapt into a quad Lutz, speeding weightlessly through the air with his arms outstretched. He landed easily, moving into a step sequence. The ice had been his solace for the past months, the only thing which had grounded him. He let it seep into his thoughts, taking over his senses until he was one with the blades. With barely any force of will his body took off into a quad flip followed by a triple toe. Muscle memory carried him through the camel spin and Ina Bauer, gaining speed until he leapt into a triple Axel. His mind relished in the silence.

He was barely aware of his legs moving as he executed a quad toe-loop. The landing was wobbly, but his body was not his own any more. He was quiet and emptiness. He was the whooshing sound of the blades on ice. He was muscles and tendon pulling, twisting. The ice beckoned and he gave himself to it. All he was and all he could have been. A Triple Lutz-double toe-double loop combination left him unmoored, and only when the ice was once again under his feet did his lungs let out a breath. A sit spin and he was reaching the end of his program. Dazed. Lost.

He stopped in the middle of the rink, hands outstretched above his head and he blinked twice before realising he had done it. He had finished his routine.

Pulling a grin on his face was harder than executing a quad Lutz.

He did it all the same, crossing his arms in front of his chest and shouting

“It’s JJ style.”

 

The crowd was cheering loudly. Above it boomed the voice of the commentator announcing Yuri’s free skate. Yuri took off his guards and Yakov patted him on the shoulder. He gave his coach a sharp nod and stepped on the ice. The cheers followed him as he skated to the middle of the rink and took his position. One of his hands was outstretched towards the sky while he waited for the first notes.

The violins began to play, sorrowfully dripping their notes and Yuri moved across the ice. Every joint and muscle was flexed into the gracefulness Lilia had branded into him. She had broken him only to stitch him back, pose after pose, demanding perfection. And perfection he had delivered, time and time again. He leapt into a quad toe-triple toe combination. He landed it softly. The crowd cheered in the background but Yuri’s sole focus were his blades moving in counters before he did a step sequence. He readied himself for a triple Axel. And nailed it.

He would win this.

A quad Salchow. He barely had to think about it, but Lilia’s voice echoed through his mind and instead of lulling himself into the complacency of knowing it was his strongest jump, Yuri focused on each and every twitch of his muscles, exhaling as he landed smoothly and went to balance into a camel spin. She was a scratch in the back of his mind, burning and bleeding, but comforting in its harshness. Lilia demanded and Yuri delivered.

The music gained tempo. He leapt into a quad flip, but even as he spun in the air, Yuri knew he was not going to land it well. He touched the ice with his hand, scowling. He had had enough rotations. It would have to be enough.

It wouldn’t be. It was not perfect.

He had to be perfect.

Nothing less was acceptable.

A bracket turn as the music wrapped itself around him and then Yuri flexed into a layback spin. He exited the spin to a crescendo and jumped into a triple Axel-double toe that sent shards of ice around his blade. Sloppy. It was not good. His scowl deepened, but he glided before doing a step sequence. The music was nearing its end, but he had one more jump.

He had fucked up, but he would not go down without a fight. He could feel the strain of his muscles and he relished in the burning as moved across the rink before catching the D-mol that was his cue. And then he was flying into a triple Lutz followed by a triple toe that ended with a sit spin. Just as the music died down.

Yuri panted, holding his composure just enough to bow before he was skating off the ice. He would not win. He did not need to see the results to know that.

His windpipe was a knot and everything around him was shrinking to cold darkness. But he made it off the ice, letting Yakov and Lilia steer him towards the kiss and cry. He had failed them. He had not made it.

Everything he had done, every bruise, every slap of the ice on his hands. It had not been enough. His chest heaved and the sounds were growing muffled. Yakov was patting his back, but his skin felt disconnected from him. Everything was swimming in a sea of flashes and bright colours.

A hand grabbed his elbow and then they were moving. Through the lights and the muffled noise. A hallway. And then more steps, more lights, dimmer. A door. A bench.

Then darkness.

 

Altin had left the second he had noticed the yellow trench coat of Plisetsky’s coach. She had been pulling along a very dazed looking Yuri. The younger skater’s eyes had been oddly glazed in the kiss and cry, and Jean wondered what was going on. He had never seen him in such a state. But it was not his place to intrude.

With a frown he reluctantly turned his head towards the television on the wall. Victor’s free skate was about to begin and he wanted to see him skate. Jean was nearly certain he would not be making the podium. After Plisetsky had placed second, Jean was temporarily in third place. He had no doubt Nikiforov would get a medal. It was only a question whether he would outscore Katsuki who had pulled a surprisingly flawless free which had propelled him from fourth to first place.

Victor’s choice to compete and coach at the same time was unheard of, but Jean had to admit the Russian had done an excellent job with his fiancé. Yuuri had gotten better than the last season. So good in fact he posed a serious threat to Victor’s sixth GPF gold.

The music began. Jean watched the silver-haired Russian on the screen as he moved smoothly across the ice first in rockers then in counters. The way he moved was incredible. Even after a year off the ice, Nikiforov had not lost the touch. He looked like he was caressing the ice with his blades.

Delicately he jumped a quad toe followed by a triple toe that barely scratched the ice. The camera zoomed on his face as he moved and he was the picture of serenity, a small smile curling his lips. A different camera angle caught him as he spun into a camel spin that grew into an upright spin. The commentators were going crazy and Jean chuckled. It had taken them only a year to forget that Victor Nikiforov liked stunning the audience. He had never skated a routine that had failed to leave everyone speechless. And as he glided in a spiral position before jumping a triple Axel and landing it effortlessly, he proved it once again.

Next came his signature quad flip, which Katsuki had made his own, using it as a homage as the last jump of every free Skate since last season.

The music lulled the Russian into his movements and when he leapt into a quad Lutz-double toe it seemed more like a flight than a jump. A short step sequence before the music went into a crescendo that led Nikiforov into a triple Lutz-double toe-double loop combination.

Jean’s eyes were glued to the screen. He considered himself an excellent figure skater, but Victor Nikiforov was truly something else. He would never stop dreaming of beating him to the podium, yet at the same time he knew he would never be able to make an Ina Bauer look so soft, so effortless.

The commentators anticipated the last jump just mere moments before Victor landed a perfect quad toe. They were nearing the end of the free. Victor had always tended to put his jumps in the first half of his routine, but this season he had put one in the second half.

He had no doubt it was Katsuki’s influence.

The music began to reach its end and the Russian hydrobladed before another step sequence. As it climaxed, Victor spun before coming to a stop. The camera zoomed in to his flushed face and gentle smile.

Jean looked at Giacometti who was standing next to him, wearing the same expression as him. There was Victor Nikiforov and then there was _this_.

Jean was amazed.

 

His vision cleared bit by bit. Yuri could feel his limbs shake as he struggled to inhale and exhale in sync with the voice that was calmly counting by his side. His heartbeat was terribly loud. Everything was terribly loud. The clicking of a heel on the tiles made him flinch and for a moment the voice faltered, before picking up once again. The heels did not move again.

He looked at the blurry outline of his knees, the pale blue fabric of his costume getting slowly into focus. He saw the sequins, and then the wisps of tulle sewn onto his sleeves. His pearly white gloves, smeared with wet patches. Yuri slowly lifted his head and saw the bright yellow of Lilia’s trench coat standing in front of him. Her stern face was contorted into a grimace that on anyone else could have been mistaken for worry.

But Lilia never worried. She only disapproved.

The voice still counting the rhythm of his breaths belonged to Otabek, and Yuri snapped his head to his left, looking at his friend with a bewildered expression.

“Yura?” he asked calmly, dark eyes assessing him “Are you feeling better?”

Yuri opened his mouth to speak, but only a croaked sound escaped it. A bottle of water was pressed in his hand and he gulped down the lukewarm liquid, feeling it soothe his parched mouth.

“I’m… I don’t know.” he admitted, too dazed to think “What happened?”

“You got third place.” Lilia answered, her voice sharp like a whip.

She was standing in front of him, arms crossed over her chest.

“You had a breakdown, I think.” Otabek added, looking at Lilia coldly “A panic attack?”

Lilia’s expression darkened and she stepped closer to where Yuri was seated.

“It doesn’t matter.” she bit back harshly in Russian “We must go. The ceremony will start now.”

Otabek looked like he was about to protest but, Lilia suddenly knelt in front of Yuri and began wiping at his face with a tissue. A moment later she was dabbing his cheeks with a make up sponge. Habit made him close his eyes just as she moved it over his eyelids and nose. She fumbled a bit more over his face and then she declared

“There, now you’re presentable.”

Yuri opened his eyes to see her get back on her feet and look at him expectantly. He blinked twice, dazed and confused, but Otabek’s hand squeezed his shoulder. It grounded him.

Slowly he got up from the bench, his feet wobbling for a moment. He straightened his spine and then Lilia opened the door. And they were off.

 

Jean managed to get to the stands for the ceremony, looking as Victor and Yuuri skated towards the podium, hand in hand. The camera zooming on them showed the contented smile on both their faces. Jean shook his head. They were on the verge of sappy, but there was something endearing about them. It didn’t matter that Nikiforov still refused to acknowledge Jean’s existence, he could not begrudge them happiness.

The pair was entertaining everyone while they waited for the Bronze medalist who arrived a few minutes later, skating stiffly towards the other two. Yuri’s face was expressionless, unreadable. The three skaters ascended the podium. As he watched them receive their medals, Jean could not stop looking at the younger of the three. There was something unsettling in the way he stood.

He looked, well, broken was the first thing coming to Jean’s mind. But Yuri Plisetsky was a force of nature, a tight bundle of anger and energy that wiped everything on his path. It was impossible to imagine him anything but. And yet, there he was, looking like driftwood on a riverbank.

Jean could not help his curiosity. Even though he doubted he would ever find out why had Yuri been escorted to the lockers by his coach right after his free looking like death had warmed over, he still wondered.

The medalists were being photographed. And predictably Nikiforov stole the thunder from the other two like only he was capable of. Jean heard Chris snicker next to him. There was not much more to watch. There would be the interviews next. And Jean supposed he had his own duty to worry about. Even if he had gotten fourth place, his fans would not be less demanding of his presence. It would be a couple of hours before he could make it to the hotel.

He patted Chris on the back and the Swiss winked, bidding him good luck.

 

The light in the bathroom was harsh. Yuri squinted as he leaned over the sink. A whole day and some more had simply passed him by. He only remembered a blur of interviews and then fans crowding him. Preparations for the Gala, the dimmed lights during his performance, the scratch of blades on ice, someone pulling a suit on him and pushing him into a room full of people. The banquet. _You have to smile Yuri. These are sponsors. Smile._

He washed his face with cold water, but there was a lingering ache in his facial muscles. He must have listened to Lilia then. He must had smiled. Yuri grabebd a towel and dried his face, getting out of the bathroom. He didn’t know what had happened during his free skate, but something had given way. Some fundamental part of him had snapped out of place and left him floating in the weightless moment between takeoff and touchdown, spinning and spinning and spinning.

He threw the towel on the floor getting dressed on autopilot. They had a flight in the afternoon, but the clock told him he had slept in. He had to gather all his stuff and do his luggage. Eat. Take a shower.

Even as he thought about it all he felt lost, like nothing made sense. He pivoted on the spot, trying to get something done, but it was all just too confusing. Overwhelming. He groaned, pushing his knuckles over his eyes. What was happening to him?

He got out of his hotel room, taking the stairs to go down to the lobby. And then he walked out on the street.

He closed his eyes, inhaling the cold morning air.

He was a mess.

Yuri didn’t know how long he stood there, but when his phone chimed and he opened his eyes to retrieve it from the pocket of his jeans, his fingers were numb and he was shivering. He unlocked the screen as he walked back into the lobby. He had a message form Otabek:

_Where are you?_

_In the lobby_ , he replied, struggling with his half-frozen fingers. Yakov would have a fit if Yuri caught a cold, but at least his mind was somewhat clearer. He was not okay, not by a long stretch. But the world made a little more sense now.

Otabek walked out of the elevator a couple of minutes later and the moment he took in Yuri’s appearance his expression darkened.

“Tell me you haven’t been out in just this.” he told him in lieu of a greeting, pointing at Yuri’s shirt, before he added “You’re all red from the cold”

Yuri looked down at himself, and realised he was wearing a T-shirt. Otabek must had taken his silence for an admission, because he sighed wearily.

“Yura, are you ok?” he asked, all serious and Yuri swallowed.

Then he shook his head, looking at the carpeted floor.

“I don’t know what’s happening.” he told him “It’s like, I don’t know. I’m not okay.”

He didn’t make any sense. But none of this made any sense to him either. And yet Beka looked at him as if his mumbling had explained him everything.

“Come on, let’s get some breakfast” he told him and then he stripped off his grey hoodie giving it to him “Put this on.”

His tone left no room for argument and Yuri complied, crawling into the larger hoodie. He had not really realised how cold he had been until the warm fabric enveloped him. Beka must have read his thoughts on his face because he gave him one of his rare smiles. Just a pull of his lips that briefly disappeared in his trademark stoic expression.

“Come on, Yura.” he said and Yuri followed him into the dining hall.

Several skaters were already there, eating their breakfast in various stages of hangover. Yuri grabbed the first things he came across, not particularly hungry and sat down at a table next to Otabek. As he silently munched on his food he listened to the idle conversation floating around him. Mostly it consisted of broken pieces of impressions from the evening before.

Yuri remembered so little of it, it could have been a dream. He had floated through the event, doing what was required of him to do, but barely being there. It was unnerving, or at least, Yuri knew it should be unnerving. Because as he chewed a croissant that tasted like nothing on his tongue, he found himself so removed from caring, that the life he knew was his own seemed to him like some else’s. He was nothing, just a wisp of confusion wrapped in Otabek’s shirt.

A sudden commotion dragged him from his thoughts and he looked up. Leroy had just entered the dining hall with three female skaters in tow who were giggling while he strolled through the room like he owned the place. Yuri felt a spark of irritation at the sight.

He scowled.

“Yuri?” Beka said with a small frown.

“It’s nothing.” he explained “Just the moron being a moron”

Otabek followed his line of sight and nodded huffing a small laugh.

“You talked to him the other night.” Beka told him and it meant _How the fuck had that happened_. Yuri had become quite well versed in translating Otabek speech. The older skater was never very generous with his words, leaving most things unstated.

“He was not a dick.” Yuri said with a shrug “We talked about his sister. She’s a skater too.”

And also Yuri’s fan, he recalled. Leroy had said her room was full of his posters. Intuitively Yuri knew there must be plenty of fans out there who covered their walls in effigies of himself, but he had never really faced the fact. It had been a strange sensation to have it so boldly stated.

He lifted his eyes from his croissant and looked at the table where Leroy had just sat down, cocky grin spreading from ear to ear while the girls he had come with fawned over him. He was really annoying as fuck.

King JJ. Yuri snorted. What a self-centered and boisterous idiot.

How did those stupid lyrics go? I look in the mirror and the King looks back at me? Right. Yuri could bet the Canadian had posters of himself taped on his bedroom walls.

And then suddenly it struck him.

Yuri felt his lips spread into a grin.

It was _brilliant._

 

The doors opened and Jean walked out of the elevator, luggage trailing behind him. He was supposed to meet with his parents in the lobby. They had a flight in a couple of hours and they had just the time to get to the airport without any hurry. Marseille had been an experience, and even if he had placed fourth, Jean was overall happy. In all of his figure skating career he had never seen such a level of technical difficulty and artistic performance. This season was something else.

Not that he intended to give up the podium at Worlds. Now that he knew what was the best his competition could give, he would have to work a bit during Nationals and Four Continents. Up the difficulty a bit. Plisetsky had outscored him by a fraction after all. Jean could do it. He had confidence in his skills. And ambition to boot.

He would make the podium at Worlds.

Jean sat down on one of the armchairs in the lobby and took his phone out. He punched in a text to his mother to tell her he was waiting for them and then he checked his social media. Everyone was talking about the GPF and Nikiforov’s performance. Nothing new under the sun, he thought with a huff of laughter.

He was looking at the photos from the Gala when he heard the sound of footsteps closing on him. Jean lifted his head and saw Yuri Plisetsky stride in his direction. The younger skater had a determined expression on his face. Jean, pocketed his phone, lifting his eyebrows.

“Leroy.” the younger skater greeted.

“Plisetsky.” he replied, baffled at the interaction but not at the unsurprisingly angry expression the blond was sporting.

He was standing in front of him, looking like a cat ready to leap. The tiger striped shirt he was wearing added to the image and Jean wondered what was going on.

He was just about to inquire when Yuri spoke

“You said your sister is a fan, right?” he barked, glaring at Jean.

“She is.” Jean replied, brows furrowing in confusion “Why?”

The Russian did not reply, shoving a big yellow envelope in Jean’s hand. He looked at the blond, but he was just glaring. Jean dropped his gaze to the envelope and opened it to. Inside was one of the official photos from the GPF in Barcelona. Yuri in his costume from the free skate.

And in the corner an autograph.

He lifted his eyes in disbelief, but Plisetsky was already striding towards the elevators. He almost called him back, to thank him, but the elevator doors opened and Yuri got in. Jean was left there in the lobby, flabbergasted.

It was a very nice thing to do. And coming from anyone else he wouldn’t have thought much of it. But this was Plisetsky, the Russian Punk who could not stand his fans.

Jean looked at the picture of the blond, caught mid jump and the autograph in the corner. His sister would jump in excitement. Jean could already picture it.

“Jean?” his mother called and he lifted his head, a beaming smile still on his lips

“Maman.” he greeted “Look what Mél got.”

He handed the photograph to his mother who smiled.

“That’s wonderful.” she said warmly, gingerly holding the picture “She’ll be on cloud nine.”

Jean laughed, shaking his head. Suddenly something caught his eye and he took the photo from his mother’s hands, turning it around.

On the back of the picture was a message, scratched with a sharpie.

_Mélanie,_

_if you manage to tape one of my posters in JJ’s room, I’ll send you my old pair of skates. I’ll sign them too._

_YP_

Jean blinked twice. And then he was laughing out loud.

 _This_ was the Yuri Plisetsky he knew.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features a very upset Yuri, therefore expect the language to get less and less pretty. I feel the need to point out that what the characters think does not often reflect the reality of things. Misconceptions and miscommunication are an ugly thing. Also, Yuri broke my heart here, so beware.  
> I promise it will get better.

_“If I could_ _  
_ _I too would carve myself into eternity.”_

_C. Abani, Hanging in Egypt..._

 

It was dark outside. The short winter day fading away quickly as they flew across Eastern Europe. There was still more than an hour before they landed in Pulkovo and it had been a bumpy flight so far. Turbulence after turbulence had rattled the plane, reverberating through the floor. And Yuri’s stomach has rolled each time. Even though he had never been very fond of flying, it was a discomfort he had needed to get used to. There were medications he could take, but he did not like the dazed state they left him in. And so he had learned to bit the bullet.

The plane began to rumble faintly once again. And Yuri swore loudly enough to earn a glare from the lady sitting cross the aisle. The loudspeakers pinged and the flight assistant’s dulcet voice travelled through, prompting the passengers to strap their seat belts on. Yuri’s gaze drifted away from the disapproving woman and he exhaled in annoyance as he fumbled with the seat belt. Mila was sleeping in the seat nearby and had not unlatched her seat belt since the first turbulence, somewhere above Germany.

Yuri’s stomach quivered and he grimaced, leaning his head back on the seat. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the music playing through his headphones while the plane bumped through the air. It was a modern composition, a strange and yet slow piece Otabek had sent him when Yuri had been looking for a song for his free skate. One of Beka’s favourite pieces.

Otabek had described it to him like an argument between a pair of violins which carried two entirely different conversations, pulling and tugging with their words, struggling to find their peace outside the silences that spanned between the notes. It had been so strange to see his friend talk so much, but music was one of the things that held a special place in Beka’s life. So Yuri had put it on his playlist and had tried to hear the story. He truly _had_. But then, like now, all Yuri could picture were the jumps and spins of an imaginary choreography. The slow crossovers in the stretches of silence, the combination jumps in the crescendos.

Perhaps next season he could use it. Perhaps next season he would not _fail_ at the GPF, flubbing jumps he could do in his sleep. He opened his eyes as the last notes trickled away. Yuri stared out of the plane window. The darkness of the sky beyond the glass sharpened the edges of his reflection. Loose strands of hair had fallen out of the braid Yuri had woven it in, back at the hotel. They covered part of his face, but he could still see the waxen pallor and the dark circles around his eyes.

He looked away, staring at his lap with a grimace. He felt tired, like everything had been scrubbed out of him, until nothing was left but a raw and aching mass of muscles and joints. There was a bronze medal buried deep within his backpack. And Yuri didn’t know what stung more, the knowledge he had fucked up the free skate or that it had taken so little for whatever misguided illusion he had about himself to shatter along with him.

After the confusion of that morning had washed away all that Yuri was left with was a scorching anger at himself. At how pathetic he was. He had broken down in the kiss and cry, he had been led like a puppet by Lilia and Yakov throughout the Gala and the banquet. He had cried in front of Beka. He had shown everyone how pathetic and weak he was. And there was nothing Yuri wished more than to uproot this newfound weakness, to destroy it, burning the heart out of it. Because no amount of gold medals would be enough to show the world he was worthy. Not if underneath it all he was just a broken mess.

Yuri closed his eyes once again. He did not want to think about all of that. He did not want to think _at all_. But he kept tasting bile on his tongue. And it had little to do with the turbulence they were flying through. And everything to do with him.

He fucking hated it.

 

The sun was sinking behind the bare trees. The snow glittered in the twilight and strokes of orange light wedged between the long shadows of the trunks. They seemed to reach out to the haphazard attempt at a snowman that was leaning crookedly in the middle of the lawn. A bright red scarf had been knotted around what must had been its neck.

The snow was covered in footprints and pawprints that led from the shovelled path to the trees and the evergreen bushes. They were the traditional cover during his siblings’ snowball fights and Jean felt the ghost of a chuckle in his throat. He inhaled the frosty December air moving up the path. The ice crunched under his boots while he pulled his luggage. His lips curved in a tired smile. After eleven hours of flight and then a long taxi ride home Jean was entirely exhausted. But it was good to be home.

He had missed it.

He could hear a commotion at the front door, which had been opened all of a sudden to reveal his excited siblings. Tommy and Mélanie were wasting no time in hugging their parents and chattering loudly while Toffee wagged her furry tail in excitement going from one member of the family to the other.

Jean hurried up the path and just as he had walked past the threshold he was nearly knocked off his feet by a blur of blue.

“Jean!” his brother squealed throwing himself at him and Jean struggled to keep his balance while the nine year old squeezed the life out of him.

“I haven’t been away for so long.” Jean said teasingly, French rolling off his tongue with familiarity.

“Yes, you have.” Tommy replied with a pout and Jean laughed at the dark-haired boy who was hanging from him like a little monkey, his blue jumper riding up his arms.

“And Mél is always mean to me when you’re not home.” Tommy whined.

“That’s not true.” Mélanie bit back, with a hand perched on her hip a dark eyebrow cocked “And you’re gonna strangle Jean.”

“I am not.” Tommy countered testily but extricated himself from the embrace nonetheless.

Someone had shut the door in the meanwhile and their father began taking care of the luggage, while their mother greeted their aunt, who had stayed with Tommy and Mél during the competitions.

Jean looked at his sister.

“I don’t get a hug?” he asked her, casually leaning on the wall.

“No.” she replied cheekily before she embraced him tightly.

“Welcome back Jean.” she said in the crook of his neck.

Once his sister had let go of him Jean knelt down to properly greet Toffee. The golden retriever licked his hand until he scratched her behind the ears. Her long tail flapping happily on the tiled floor. Tommy joined him and Toffee sprawled in the middle of the entrance, enjoying the attention.

“So, have you watched me skate?” he asked, looking up from the golden pile of fur that was currently licking his hand.

“We did!” Tommy exclaimed, nodding excitedly, dark fringe bobbing with the motion “We watched you on the TV! You were so good. The best!”

“Yuri was better.” Mél piped in, with a defiant smirk “And Victor and the Japanese Yuri too. They got the medals.”

“Too bad you think so little of me” Jean told her, getting back to his feet and reaching for his messenger bag “And here I was, about to give you something I got for you at the GPF.”

He rummaged between his belongings until he found the yellow envelope Yuri had given him. He held it in his hands pretending to be disappointed.

“What is it?” she inquired, blue eyes full of curiosity.

“Nah ah, I’m not giving it to you now.” he told her with a disapproving shake of his head “You wounded my feelings. How could you say that someone was better than King JJ?”

“ _Jean!_ “ she cried out, trying to grab the envelope while he held it up above his head “Come _on_.”

He made a show of thinking, and then slowly lowered the envelope, handing it to his sister. Mél wasted no time in prying it open. She extracted the photograph, carefully pulling it out of the envelope.

And loudly squealed.

“Oh my God!!!” she cried, jumping up and down before throwing herself at Jean who nearly toppled onto the tiles. “Oh my God! An autograph. From _Yuri!_ Oh my God. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Jean wondered whether to tell her right away about the message in the back, but instead he chose to wait, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the peg on the wall.

He was bone-tired and could barely wait to get under a shower and tuck himself into his bed. It had been a long week. Between the competition and jet lag he was a mass of sleep deprived, aching limbs. And it had been the first GPF without Isabella by his side. Her absence had pulled at his heartstrings. Still did. Jean could feel his trademark grin wane, and he forced it back on. His sibling’s excitement was important.

More important than a broken heart that was mending too slowly.

He swallowed down his sadness and looked at his siblings. Mél was standing in the middle of the mudroom, eyeing the autographed photo with an air of reverence while Tommy stood on his tiptoes looking at it with an ill concealed interest. His brother professed to be Jean’s greatest supporter, but Jean knew he admired many skaters, wanting to learn to skate just like them.

“What’s that?” Tommy suddenly asked, pointing at the back of the photo. So much for not telling her. Jean’s smile turned wry.

“What’s what?” Mél asked, turning the photo with a puzzled expression. And widening her eyes dramatically.

“Jean…” she breathed, blue eyes like saucers “Did you...did you see _this_?”

With a weary sigh, Jean nodded.

The moment he had read the scrawled message on the back of the photo, he had anticipated the pleading expression on his sister’s face, and Mél did not disappoint. Jean shook his head wearily. It had been a shrewd move on Plisetsky’s part. Like Jean could have ever managed to refuse her this.

Mél was looking at him with a pair of puppy eyes that could have given Toffee a run for her money. He sighed.

“Fine.” he said at last “On one condition.”

“Anything.” his sister nodding solemnly.

“I get to choose the poster.”

 

The ice was full of scratches. There were deep wedges from badly landed jumps that intersected the shallow lines of gliding. Yuri exited a layback spin, too roughly for it to be good and he scowled, stopping in the middle of the rink. Nationals were in a week and Yuri had never felt less prepared. He had been skating his routine with his headphones on, going through motions that were already deeply ingrained with him. But no matter how hard he had tried he had not been able to get into it.

This season’s theme had been the first one in his skating career Yuri had been able to feel throughout the whole program. He had _yearned_ for victory after all. But in the darkness of the Saint Petersburg mid-afternoon all of it seemed lackluster. Empty. Victory would prove nothing. It would not fix whatever had moved out of joint inside him after the final.

He could skate his routines. His motions came to him with technical precision, but it was like walking blindfolded down the stairs, wondering at every step if his body would betray him and he would topple. If he would fuck up something he had always been able to do. And the light tremors going through his limbs every time he skated his free skate made everything worse.

Yakov was busy with Mila, and Yuri was more grateful than ever for the lack of attention. It was embarrassing to be unable to skate well something he had already won three medals with. And Nationals mattered. Without them he could not compete in Euros and Worlds. He had won silver at Worlds the previous year and Georgi had gotten seventh place, securing three entries for Russia this year. But he needed to make the podium in Chelyabinsk in order to compete.

Yuri skated towards the rink barrier, gripping it with his fingers and leaning for a moment. He wanted to. His own thoughts may be too jumbled for him to understand them but he knew that he wanted to compete. That he wanted a rematch for the gold that Katsudon had snatched under his nose at Worlds last season. By a fraction of a point.

He looked to his right where Victor and him where sitting on the bench, lacing up their skates. Katsudon was wearing the perpetually worried expression that had not left his face since they had gotten back from France. Victor’s ambitions to coach and compete did not take into account the fact that the Russian and Japanese Nationals would overlap this year, and that Katsudon would have to go to Japan without his coach. Yuri almost felt sorry for the Japanese.

But that did not change the fact that Yuri wanted to defeat him on the rink. And in order to get there he needed to get his shit together before Nationals.

Exhaling through his nose, Yuri took his headphones off. It was pointless to practice his routine if he could not get into it. But he was _not_ going to flub another quad flip during competition. Or any other jump, in fact. If willpower alone had made him win in Barcelona, he could manage a few fucking jumps.

Pursing his lips, Yuri skated to the middle of the rink and got to work. He had six jumps that needed to be flawless. And they would.

He could never forgive himself another failure.

 

The lamp cast a gentle light on the desk. There were papers strewn underneath the textbook Jean was glaring at. He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking away from it. He had been staring at the same page for two hours already, but it kept making no sense. Jean could be at the rink now, practising for the Nationals, perfecting his routine. But the month before the Nationals began was virtually the only time he would have for studying until March.

And he needed to pass this exam.

He looked back down on his textbook, formulas blurring into gibberish. He could have pursued his skating and musical career, he had _wanted_ to. Jean’s whole life had revolved around skating and he had always pictured himself becoming a coach after his career in figure skating was over. But his parents had insisted on higher education, telling him it was always better to have more options.

A few months of coaxing and Jean had caved in. He had always been good with numbers, so a degree in engineering had seemed like an achievable goal.

He had not considered the ungodly amount of mathematics involved in it. It was more exhausting than a gruelling training session, and the frustration of being stuck on the same theorem for hours to no end made him want to punch something. Or just throw the book away and forget about engineering.  

Jean sighed loudly. He was not a quitter. He could do this. He was just out of shape. He had not touched differential calculus in a while and the theory he had studied the year before was waning from his memory. But if he could do quads with his arms raised than he could figure out Euler’s multiplicator.

Nodding with determination, Jean took his notes and began rereading them. He had just reached the end of a theorem demonstration when a knock sounded on his bedroom door.

“Come in.” he said, blinking as his eyes adjusted to something not made of Greek letters.

The door opened and Mél walked in, biting her lip.

“Jean, do you have time?” she asked him, shuffling her feet on his carpeted floor “To pick the poster, I mean”

Jean’s eyebrows shot up and he grinned. He had not forgotten about it, but Mél had not bothered him about Yuri’s note for a couple of days, which had been borderline miraculous. And Jean had almost started a betting pool with his parents on how long it would take her to.

“Yeah, sure.” he told her, grateful for a good reason to part from differential equations if only for a while.

They walked out of his room and further down the corridor to Mél’s inner sanctum. A “No Trespassing” sign was taped on the door, above a “You shall not pass.” sign that Isabella had given to his sister in the hope of being able to fangirl with her over something other than just skating.

Something tugged at his throat and he pushed it down. Izzy had gotten along so well with everyone in his family, she had practically been a part of it. And her absence was almost tangible. He could feel it in a plethora of tiny details, in the throw blanket on his bed she used to like, in the pink tennis ball she had bought for Toffee, or the extensive collection of black and white films he had gathered over the years because Isabella had been passionate about them. It had felt like missing a limb the first few months. Now the ache was shallower. Like a random sadness that gripped him at odd times, a wistfulness that no matter how hard he tried, no matter the resolutions he had made in Marseille, still lingered.

Mél had opened the door, ushering him in the shrine-like space that was her room, and Jean shook himself out of his morose thoughts.

He hadn’t been in her room in a long while and he observed it with curiosity. The walls were plastered with effigies of Yuri Plisetsky and the odd skater here and there. Various memorabilia stood proudly on display on her shelves, along with her medals from the Novice and Junior competitions. She had not made it to the JGP final this year, but it had been a near thing.  

“So, which one do you want?” his sister asked him shyly and Jean blinked, before remembering the purpose of this visit.

She was looking worriedly at him and Jean smiled wryly. Of course, she would not be excited to part with any of her posters. He shook his head looking at the dozens of Yuris lining the walls. There were large ones with Yuri in his costumes from the last Grand Prix, and a couple of ones with costumes he did not recognise, but the logo in the corner was of the GPF in Sochi. Smaller ones that sported an even younger version of the Russian. He almost laughed at how cute and innocent Plisetsky looked in those.

Not an alley cat yet, more like a kitten.

“How old is Plisetsky?” he asked his sister suddenly curious.

“He will be 17 in March.” she replied immediately, then proudly she added “His birthday is March the 1st. He’s a pisces like me.”

Jean lifted his eyebrows minutely. He had always thought Yuri much younger. Although it made sense, the age threshold for the Senior division was 14, after all. It must have been his appearance. Yuri had grown much in the past year. He was still shorter than Jean and lithe, but even compared to the posters of the last GPF, he looked like a different person. His hair was longer now, his chin more angular, his shoulders slightly more pronounced.

“Do you have any from this year’s GPF?” he asked Mél.

“Not yet.” she said with a small grimace, then her expression lightened “But I can order it online!”

Jean chuckled.

“Sure, let’s have a look then.” he told her, walking towards the desk where her laptop lay open “If I’m gonna have to watch Plisetsky on my wall every morning I want it to be a good picture at least.”.

“We’ll find the prettiest one.” she said very seriously before breaking in an impish grin.

And Jean lightly pulled her braid in retaliation.

 

It was snowing lightly in Chelyabinsk. The small flakes fluttered in the air, catching on Yuri’s jacket before melting. He stood on the pavement in front of the hotel, unsure. He had needed to get out of his room. The walls had begun closing on him and Yuri had found his breaths hard to come by. Just like in Marseille. And so he had nearly ran out of the hotel sliding doors, talking lungful after lungful of icy cold air.

The afternoon light was waning in a grey twilight and Yuri looked at the large street, cars speeding by with no care for the slush covered road. He had not been in Chelyabinsk before and had no idea where to go. Or what to do, for that part. All Yuri knew was that he had no intention of going back to his room any time soon. Yakov may want him to be rested before the short program at the Nationals tomorrow, but Yuri needed to be out. He needed to be able to breathe.

Scowling at himself he began walking down the street in what he supposed was the general direction of the city centre. He had walked perhaps a hundred meters when he heard a familiar voice calling him.

“Yurio!” Victor’s voice reached him and Yuri cursed in the scarf that was wrapped around his neck, pretending not to hear him. Maybe if he ignored him, the silver-haired idiot would go away.

“Yurio! Wait for me.” Victor shouted petulantly, but Yuri kept walking. He was really not in the mood to deal with him. Not when splinters of his choking thoughts still lingered on the outskirts of his mind.

But Victor was persistent as ever. A few moments later the older skater was by his side, slowing out of his impromptu jog.

“So, Yurio, where are we going?” Victor asked, throwing an arm around Yuri’s shoulder which the latter pushed away immediately.

“ _We_ are not going anywhere.” Yuri replied in a clipped tone as he waited to cross the street “And my name is not Yurio”

“Don’t be like that, Yurio.” he pouted and Yuri heaved a heavy sigh, but Victor continued “You like my company. You even flew to Japan when I left last year.”

“I flew to Japan because you promised me a choreography.” Yuri bit back  “Now leave me alone. Just because Katsudon is in Osaka for his Nationals and you’re bored, doesn’t mean you have to bother me.”

It was a futile attempt, but he had to try at least. It wasn’t that he hated being around Victor, sometimes he even enjoyed himself, but Yuri could feel the pressure of the upcoming competition. And he was not ready to go on the ice. He was going to fail. Like he did in Marseille. And the worst thing was that he was having these thoughts in the first place. He was not like Katsudon, he had always been confident in his skills, he had blazed through competition, showing the world what he was made of.

But it turned out he is made of weakness.

And that, that was unbearable.

He could feel his lungs constrict but Victor suddenly exclaimed

“I know.” lifting a finger to his mouth, and giving Yuri a look that spelled trouble.“What if I choreographed a routine for your next season?”

Yuri found himself blinking as he turned to look at the silver-haired skater, panic ebbing in the wake of his bemusement. He stared at the older skater who was eyeing him with an airy expression while the snow caught on his clothes.

Victor’s coat was getting wetter by the minute and there were snowflakes in his hair. Yuri nearly rolled his eyes. Of course he would prance around in the snow without a hat on his head. In a sudden epiphany Yuri understood Yakov’s constant exasperation with Victor. He shook his head slowly. The man was unbelievable sometimes. He had offered to choreograph him a routine. Just like that.

“You would do that just to what, spend some time walking around Chelyabinsk with me because you are bored?” Yuri asked him slowly,

“Why not?” Victor shrugged, flicking away a wet lock of hair from his cheek.

“You are completely out of your mind.” Yuri declared shaking his head, then against his better judgement breathed out “Fine.”

“Really?” Victor asked.

It was not fine, not really. But he guessed Victor’s company might at least help him pass the time until he needed to get back to the hotel. And if having someone around helped when the tide rose and his lungs constricted, well that was for him to know and pretend it was not there.

“It’s not like you wouldn’t have followed me around.” he told Victor instead “And if I can get a choreography out of it, I’m not gonna complain.”

Victor smiled brightly and then they were off.

 

The sheets smelled of fabric softener. Jean inhaled the scent with a sigh. It was good to be finally able to lay down, tucked under the heavy blankets that wrapped him in warmth. Every muscle in his body thrummed with the pleasant ache of a hard training session. Jean had pushed himself harder than usual at the rink, but it had paid off. He had been able to up the difficulty of his combination jumps, turning doubles to triples and getting enough height to score him additional points. The only thing left before he had to face Katsuki at the Four Continents was upping his performance score.

It had always been his weak spot. Jean had based his success on technique, but he would be facing the skater who broke one of Nikiforov’s records _and_ nearly beat him at the GPF. Not to mention that the latter and Yuri would be competing at Worlds along with the Japanese.

No, Jean was not going to make the podium on jumps alone. He needed to work on his performance.

He turned under the covers, tucking a hand under the pillow. All of them, Victor, Yuri and Yuuri, had managed to convey more than movements. They had told the audience a story. They had been one with the music. Surely it shouldn’t be that hard? After all Jean had composed the music for both of his routines.

And yet every time he had tried to get into it he had been unable to.

What was he missing?

A ping from his phone, distracted him from his thoughts and Jean frowned, turning in his bed and reaching blindly for the phone on the nightstand. It was a text.

From Izzy.

His frown deepened as he swiped it open.

-Izzy-  
_JJ, I’m sorry for dragging you in this situation. I’m really really sorry._

He looked at the screen, bemused. Quickly he tapped a reply.

_What situation?_

The response was immediate.

-Izzy-  
_Check twitter._

Jean opened the app, unsure at what to expect.

He was mentioned in thousands of tweets. And he was one of the trending topics. He began to scroll through the tweets, frown deepening with each tweet. There were fans showing their support, others bashing Isabella in a way that made his fingers curl in the blankets. Some rejoiced. Bit by bit Jean began to understand. And something ugly started to pool in the bottom of his stomach. He swallowed down the bile and kept scrolling. Until he found the source.

It was a blurry photo of Izzy holding hands with a russet-haired man. They were both smiling, oblivious to the fact someone was taking a picture of them while they strolled in the snowy Montreal street. Jean looked at it, unable to tear his eyes from the sight. From the look on Isabella’s face, one he could recognise even in a low quality photo.

She looked in love.

Jean closed his eyes, but even in the darkness of his lids, he could still see it. He could still remember the time when that look had been his alone. When they had walked around the world hand in hand and the future had been something to look forward to. But amongst the wistful memories lingered also that last stroll in the park.

That April morning when all Jean had been able to see in her eyes had been sadness.

He opened his eyes and tapped on the message app.

 _It’s not your fault,_ he typed, _they wouldn’t care if it wasn’t for me. I should  be the one apologising._

Because in the end he felt a degree of guilt. Isabella did not want this kind of life. But even now she was being dragged into it by association.

A minute later a reply came.

-Izzy-  
_You’ve done nothing wrong. And they should leave you alone._

 _You know I enjoy the attention. ;)_ he tried to joke.

His phone pinged again.

-Izzy-  
_JJ, go to sleep. You are being silly._  
_Are you okay?_ _  
_ _With this, I mean?_

She knew him too well. Jean sighed, looking at the dark ceiling above his bed. He was not okay. But Jean couldn’t tell her about the lump that was lodged in his throat. It would not be fair. He was not going to be that kind of ex boyfriend. Yes, it hurt somewhere deep within his chest. And there was a sting of betrayal that had no reason to exist. But at the same time he still cared about her.

He unlocked the screen and typed

_You look happy._

In the end it was all that mattered.

He put his phone back on the nightstand and pulled the covers over his shoulder, closing his eyes. He did not expect her to reply.

His phone chimed a few minutes later and he blinked his eyes open.

-Izzy-  
_Good luck on the Nationals._

There was an ache in the pit of his stomach, but his lips pulled in a wistful smile as he typed.

 _Thanks._   

 

The crowd was cheering loudly in the Traktor Ice Arena. The announcer’s voice emerged above the noise as he introduced the next skater, and shouts of _“DavaI!”_ echoed form the stands. Georgi took his guards off with a sullen expression, heaving a breath before he skated towards the middle of the rink. The grey tulle on his cuffs twirled in the movements.

Yuri stood behind the barrier, looking at his rinkmate. The music began, rising and falling like waves and Georgi glided. He moved on the ice with his usual dramatic flair. His obsession with Anya, or whatever his ex was called, had calmed down in the past year, but Georgi still skated with an embarrassing amount of emotion.

This season’s theme was “Fate”, and by the music he had chosen, Yuri did not have to guess the fate in question was a dark one. He rolled his eyes just as Georgi did the steps that led into a loop. The older skater rotated in the air, once, twice, thrice and yes, he nailed it. Yuri nodded in approval. He had had a nasty fall during the Cup of China that had given him trouble ever since. In spite of the pain in his knee Georgi had competed in the Rostelecom and even placed fourth, but some quads had become a problem for him.

Yuri was happy to see he was getting back into his usual shape. This could easily be Georgi’s last or second to last season. He was nearly in his thirties after all.

Georgi threw his head back as he entered a flying spin. Yuri huffed an exasperated laugh as the music kept ebbing and flowing dramatically. He had watched Georgi skate this routine over and over, but it was different when the adrenaline of competition kicked in. For Yuri it brought determination. Georgi, on the other hand became almost melodramatic. It helped his performance score, but Yuri found it ridiculous.

The dark-haired skater exited a camel spin, working his way into a step sequence. A spread eagle, accompanied by a facial expression of pure pathos and then a mohawk that lead into a quad Salchow-double toe combination. As the music reached the last notes Georgi finished his spin combination and skated to the end of the rink, hands extended towards the ceiling.

The crowd cheered and applauded him warmly. He skated to pick a dark plushie bear before he exited the rink. Yakov patted him on his back and Yuri nodded at him, watching them make their way to the kiss and cry.

Yuri inhaled deeply, readying himself for his short.

He felt anything but ready, but Lilia looked at him sternly and he smoothed his frown. She had not told him anything, but he could see her disapprove, like she had done ever since they got back to Russia. Yuri refrained from scowling. It was infuriating. The former ballerina had always voiced her critique. But in the past week she had just kept looking at him and pursing her lips until her wrinkles would grow deep like wedges on her skin.

He just wanted to know what he was doing wrong but Lilia refused to say anything but brief instructions.

Suddenly Yuri was forced out of his thoughts by the announcer called his name. And he took off his guards, shoving them in Lilia’s hand before he stepped onto the ice.

What the fuck was wrong with his coach?

 

The car door slammed shut. Jean winced at the sound, but he was too worn out to really care. He had barely slept that night and practice had been gruelling. He had flubbed most of his quads, earning a worried expression from his father. His mother had asked him what was wrong and Jean had not wanted to tell her. But like always it had only taken a bit of prodding before he had opened his heart, telling her about Isabella moving on and him finding out about it that night.

His mother had given him a sad look and a tight hug, ordering him to go back home early. He would only injure himself if he skated in that state, she had stated. And Jean knew it was true. But the drive home had only fuelled his morose thoughts as he had patiently weaved through the thick traffic.

He sighed, slinging the bag over his shoulder. Jean hated feeling this way, it was worse than the shock of the break up, or the emptiness that had come afterwards. This was an ache that throbbed in his chest, dull and sharp at the same time.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts Jean walked up the path. He had nearly reached the front door when he noticed his sister was waiting for him at the door, bouncing on her feet, while she hugged her arms around her torso to ward off the winter chill.

“Jean! The package arrived!” she exclaimed in lieu of a greeting, ushering him in “Look. Look”

She practically dragged him to the living room where two identical posters lay unrolled on the coffee table. Jean set his bag on the floor looking at their recent purchase.

It was a nice poster, he had to admit. It was of Plisetsky doing a Biellmann, his pale green costume glittering, while his ponytail whipped around his head like a halo. The poster looked even better than in the preview picture they had seen on Amazon.

Nice or not, it did not change the fact that it would have to stay taped on his wall for the foreseeable future.

“We’re doing this now?” he asked Mél showing more weariness than he liked, but his sister didn’t seem to notice.

“Please.” she said with a pleading expression and he sighed, forcing his lips into a smile he did not feel.

“As you wish” he told her “Let me just put my skates away.”

Ten minutes later they were standing in the middle of Jean’s bedroom.

“Where are going to put it?” Mélanie asked, looking at his mostly bare walls and Jean followed her gaze.

There were several shelves filled with medal cases, books, films and music, but other than that there was nothing on his walls. He liked the pale orange hue of the paint and nothing had been important enough to be put on display. His old yellowed skating posters had been given to his siblings. Although Tommy had taken most of them, jealously preserving them in a box, lest they get ruined.

“Let me think about it.” he told her, trying to find a suitable spot.

“Did you know Yuri got second place on the short today?” Mélanie asked before she threw herself down on his bed.

“Nationals?” he asked and his sister nodded.

“I didn’t manage to see them on livestream because it was too early in our timezone.” she pouted “But someone uploaded his SP on Youtube.”

“I’ll have to check it then.” Jean said with a half-hearted chuckle “Must keep an eye on the competition.”

Then, looking at the shelves where his medals were on display, Jean had an idea,

“Let’s put it there.” he pointed towards the empty section of the wall next to the shelves.

If he had to look at Plisetsky every time he walked in his room, he might as well remember he had more medals than him.

Mél must have realised his train of thought because she smirked but didn’t mention that unlike Plisetsky, Jean had yet to win the GPF. It was only a matter of time, after all.

They taped the poster to the wall, his sister doing a very surgical job of it and batting his hands away when he tried to help her, claiming he would only crumple it. It looked good there on the wall, the pale green of the costume matching the orange of his walls. His sister hummed in approval.

The only downside was that it was right in front of his bed.

But Jean guessed looking at his rival every morning when he woke up would be good for motivation, if nothing.

 

The hotel room was shrouded in darkness. Every now and then the traffic lights from the street below filtered through his curtains. Yuri lay in bed, trying to sleep, but his mind kept replaying his lackluster performance that evening. He had placed second after the short, but the score difference with Victor was big. Lilia had looked at him disapprovingly when he had gotten off the ice, but once again she had said nothing. Yakov too had not commented, and it was driving Yuri insane. Any other time Lilia would have complained, Yakov would have yelled and Yuri would have scowled. Not today.

He didn’t understand it. Did they think this was the best he could do? Did they find no reason to spur him to push himself harder? Because even Yuri knew he could skate way better than this. Even in Marseille he had skated much much better than today. So what the fuck was going on with his coaches?

His phone pinged, breaking him out of his reverie. A notification. He opened it, more out of habit than anything, thankful for a distraction from his thoughts.

Instagram opened.

And Yuri gaped.

He blinked several times, but the photo was still there. Jean Jacques Leroy standing in the middle of a bedroom with his arms crossed in his stupid pose, and a shiteating grin on his face. Behind him a medal collection gleamed, Leroy’s he supposed.

But it was the poster taped next to it, that kept Yuri’s jaw hanging open.

It was of himself. Yuri was wearing this season’s short program costume and they had photographed him in the middle of a Biellmann. A flawless Biellmann at that. His body was bent in a perfect teardrop shape. His lips pulled in the ghost of a smile. It was a really good picture. He would have to find a copy.

Leroy’s instagram post had already hundreds of likes and Yuri scrolled down to read the comments. Some were amused, others befuddled, but mostly it consisted of JJ fans gushing at how handsome the Canadian idiot was. Just because his shirt did nothing to conceal the muscles of his arms and shoulders and his hair fell over his brow with a tousled casualness, it was no reason to drool.

Yuri curled his lips in disgust.

 _You look like a moron_ , he punched a comment.

The truth was he could not believe the Canadian had gone through with it. He must be really fond of his sister if he had agreed to hang a poster of Yuri on his wall. Next to his medals.

Yuri huffed in annoyance. Trust the idiot to flaunt his golds.

Yuri may hate his bronze from the GPF but at least he had made the podium, unlike Leroy.

That the Canadian had nearly snatched even that meagre medal from Yuri’s hands, was something that Yuri tried not to think about. It was bad enough he had fucked up the free skate, he did not need to think about the .67 difference in points between Leroy and him.

His text alert pinged on his phone and Yuri frowned.

-Unknown number- **  
** _Aw, Yuri-chan, I didn’t know you cared how I look. ;) Mél did her part, here’s our address:_

Yuri looked at the message and the address in befuddlement. How had the Canadian dumbass gotten his number? Yuri saved the number before punching a text:

_How the fuck did you get my number?_

-CanadianMoron- **  
** _I have my ways ;)_

Then after a moment another text came

-CanadianMoron- **  
** _I got the numbers of everyone who was at the banquet in Sochi. I wanted to exchange pictures. I think Babicheva gave me yours._

He was going to kill Mila.

 

The sky was still dark behind the kitchen curtains while Jean fixed himself a coffee. It was way too early to be up on Christmas Eve, and Jean had dragged himself out of bed because the rink would be closing earlier today. If he wanted to train more he had to get there early. Yawning as he leaned on the kitchen counter he heard voices coming from the living room. Pouring his coffee into a mug and adding a generous amount of sugar and milk before stirring, Jean padded towards the ruckus.

Mélanie and Tommy were chattering loudly, still dressed in their pyjamas and thick woollen socks. His sister was fumbling with her laptop on the coffee table, while Tommy paced excitedly, Toffee at his ankles. Every now and then her long tail hit the baubles on the Christmas tree, rattling the tinsel and lights. Cradling his mug of coffee Jean walked into the room, confused.

He opened his mouth to ask them what on earth were they doing awake at half past five on a Saturday morning, but his sister was quicker than him.

“Jean! You’re awake too.” she exclaimed in delight “Are you gonna watch the Nationals with us? The Russians are skating the free. I have it on livestream.”

“Yes, but first we are watching the Japanese ones.” Tommy piped in “I’m rooting for Kenjiro Minami.”

“ _Please_ , Japanese Yuri is competing and he’ll grind them all to dust” Mél bit back just as Jean plopped down on the sofa, trying to fully regain consciousness.

He may had stayed up a tad too late last night, but his siblings’ wakefulness was not normal. No one should be this chipper so early. Toffee wiggled under his legs and he bent down to scratch her.

“Who are you rooting for in the Russians?” Jean eventually asked his sister with a yawn, then teasing her “Surely Popovich.”

A pillow was thrown in his direction but his reflexes were not bad for his half-awake state and he dodged it so it landed on the sofa next to him. He laughed, voice still hoarse from sleep.

“Victor Nikiforov will win of course.” Tommy declared, jumping onto the sofa next to Jean and hugging the pillow Mél had thrown at Jean “And Mila Bibich...no, _Babicheva_ will win in the Women’s Division.”

“It’s Ladies’ Division outside Canada, you dummy.” Mélanie told him as she plugged the cable in and the livestream from her laptop appeared on their large flatscreen TV.

Jean yawned once again, leaning back on the sofa. His plans to go for a run and some extra practice at the rink suddenly seemed less appealing. Sitting there on the sofa with his brother and sister was comfortable. He had not done it in a while. And it soothed he the ache that he had been carrying around the past two days. He sighed.

He should practice. But it could be argued that watching Nationals was useful. He had to see how the competition was doing after all.

 

The locker rooms were a mess, with skaters coming and going. The smell of hairspray and sweat mingled into a familiar tang. Yuri pulled his blue costume on, swearing loudly when his hair got stuck into the zipper. He still had a couple of hours until it was his turn to skate, and Lilia hadn’t done his hair yet. Yuri had to do warm ups first, and he would always mess his hairdo in the process.

He had just pulled his Team Russia jacket over the costume when Victor breezed in the locker room.

“Yurio, Yuuri’s about to skate his free. Watch!” he exclaimed, sitting next to Yuri on the bench and all but shoving his phone in front of him.

On the small screen there was a livestream of the Japanese Nationals and true to Victor’s words, Katsudon had just stepped on the ice.

Yuri had watched him skate that routine to the point of nausea, but he guessed he could spare the ten minutes it would take to watch the free and see the results.

The music played from the phone’s speaker, croaking in the noisy locker room. It was a modern Japanese piece, slow and yet full of a strange energy. Katsudon performed a mohawk and then he entered a combination spin that evolved into a catch foot layback spin and Yuri could see the determination of the other skater. It was always so strange to see how different Yuuri was when he skated. He became an entirely different person. Sometimes there was a confidence in his movements that Yuri envied. Other times he was a mess.

Victor had been worried his absence would impair his fiancé’s skating, but Yuuri was skating perfectly. His step sequence was too good. Yuri watched it with envy, knowing this was something Katsudon was better at. Better than Victor even.

They were nearing the second half of the program and Katsudon skated a three turn that guided him into a quad Salchow. Which he landed smoothly. The music carried Katsuki into an Ina Bauer. He skated a long diagonal glide before he leapt into a quad Lutz. The landing was shakier, but he did not touch the ice. The music rose and fell as he did another three turn and then a triple Salchow-double loop combination jump.

He looked exhausted but he executed a perfect camel spin and then a quad toe soon followed by a quad loop-triple toe-double toe combination. His stamina always left Yuri gaping. Katsudon did a spread eagle as the music reached the end and then he took off in his now already trademark quad flip.

And nailed it.

Next to him Victor cheered loudly, eyes suspiciously wet.

Yuri rolled his eyes.

 

The officials placed a medal around Katsuki’s neck, and Mélanie yawned.

“I told you so, Tommy.” she muttered and their brother just pouted.

“But Kenjiro got silver.” he said, snuggling closer to Jean who pulled the throw blanket around his brother’s form.

The energy that had fuelled his siblings at the crack of dawn had started to wane and exhaustion was taking its toll. Suddenly the living room door opened and their mother peeked in

“Have you eaten breakfast?” she asked, not at all surprised to find her children up at seven thirty on Christmas Eve watching the Japanese Nationals.

“Not yet, maman.” his sister answered, closing the lid of her laptop and switching the television off.

“Come on, I’m starving.” Jean told his siblings, giving a poke to Tommy who snuggled deeper “Come on, Tom, Russians start in two hours.“

Tommy mumbled something incoherent, but got up from the sofa, rubbing his eyes.

“I hate time differences.” Mélanie complained, yawning and Tommy nodded, his eyelids drooping.

Two hours later they were back on the couch, Jean flanked by his siblings who looked more alive than during the Japanese medal ceremony. Their parents had joined them for the viewing and Toffee was happily going from one member of the family to the other, begging for cuddles.

Mél had connected to a livestream of the Russian Nationals and she was waiting with bated breath for Plisetsky’s free skate. Popovich had finished his routine placing first for now, and a skater Jean was not familiar with was walking to the kiss and cry. A moment later the scores appeared. And he placed second, in spite of having had a higher score from the short. Popovich was still in the lead. Plisetsky was next and after him it was Nikiforov’s turn.

“Do you think Yuri will beat Victor this time?” his sister asked, hopeful.

“I don’t think so. Victor has 20 points of difference on the short.” Jean replied with a small shake of his head.

“Besides that’s Nikiforov, he a sure win.” their father commented from the armchair where he was sitting.

“Oh, Yuri’s about to start skating.” Mél exclaimed.

Jean watched the pale blue costume glisten in the lights of the arena. There were pieces of tulle sewn across his torso and on his sleeves, and as Yuri moved they made the Russian look almost angelic. Jean remembered how well it had fitted with Yuri’s performance back in Marseille. Even with the couple of wobbly landings in the second half of his routine, Plisetsky’s free had been a thing of beauty. There had been yearning in every motion, tangible in each jump. Jean did not know what the younger skater had been thinking about but he had been one with his routine. And it was what had put him on the podium in the end, the performance points making the difference.

But today something was off.

On the large screen Jean watched Plisetsky, and the blond was skating well. Every jump was flawless, every spin and figure were executed with technical precision. And yet, something was lacking from the routine. His motions were almost mechanical. Perfect but cold, like there was no passion, no feeling in his routine. Where in Marseille there had been overwhelming emotion, now there was nothing.

And as the camera zoomed on his face, Jean could see the same void in his expression.

And his frown deepened.

 

Cameras flashed while Yuri skated to the podium in the middle of the rink. The crowd was cheering as he stepped onto it. Victor was towering above him from his step in the middle, smiling beatifically. Fingers put a silver medal around Yuri’s neck and he almost forced himself to smile. But it would look like a grimace. He kept his facial muscles in check, waiting for the ordeal to be over.

At least Yakov would be happy. With Georgi’s bronze, his skaters had taken all the positions in the podium. It would make anyone proud. Yuri on the other hand... Well, pride was certainly not what he felt.

It had not been as bad as Marseille. But it had also been empty.

Yuri had skated through the motions on autopilot, executing everything flawlessly, but he had not been there. His mind had been a blank page. For the first time in his whole skating career he had not cared how it ended, he had not given a fuck if he would make the podium or not, even if rationally he had known it would have effectively ended his season.

But he had been feeling so tired after the short program, two days before. And his coaches’ behaviour had only made it worse. Yakov had barely yelled at him in the past two days and Lilia was only frowning, her bony hands correcting his movements. She had hardly even spoken to him.

Yuri had an odd sinking feeling that they had given up on him.

And it made his lungs constrict.

Because Lilia had seen him fall apart in Marseille. She had been there. She knew how weak he was, so Yakov knew too. They had wanted to make something great out of him, but Yuri had turned out to be too weak. Why should the former Bolshoi prima ballerina waste her time on him? Why should Yakov?

He was a disappointment. He was pathetic.

He was scared.

Because if they gave up on him, what would he do? Skating was everything for him. Without it, Yuri was no one. Nothing. He stumbled into the locker room, clutching for his breath. It was mercilessly empty and he slumped onto the bench. He could feel it claw at his chest, this _weakness_ and he hated it. From the bottom of his heart he hated it.

Yuri needed to call Beka. His friend had known how to make him breathe. He had done so in Marseille. It was embarrassing, but Yuri could not do this alone. He was scared, and he could not breathe, and the edges of his vision were turning blurry.

Fumbling with his gloved fingers Yuri fished his phone out of his pocket. He pulled his glove off with his teeth and turned it on. Dozens of notifications popped onto his screen, but he ignored them. He needed to call Beka. A text message flashed on the screen

-CanadianMoron- **  
** _Congratulations on your silver. I’m still going to kick your ass at Worlds._

Yuri stared at the it, his breaths still caged within his chest. He needed to call Otabek. He punched a reply with trembling fingers.

 _In your dreams,_ приду́рок _._

Then, he opened his contacts and called Otabek.

The phone rang.

“Pick up, Beka. Come on.” Yuri whispered in the empty locker room. It kept ringing on and on until it disconnected and Yuri stared at the phone in his hand, unsure of what to do.

Breathe, right. He needed to breathe. But it was heard, and his hands were shaking at it was all too much.

Inhale. Exhale. Count them like the rotations of a jump. Inhale. One. Two. Three. Four. Exhale. What was it, a flip, a Lutz? Inhale. Okay, he could do this. Exhale.  

Slowly, bit by bit, the tension began to ease. It was like stretching a muscle, the more you kept the position, the easier it got. Inhale. Exhale.

His phone pinged and he opened his eyes, not even realising he had closed them in the first place. He unlocked the phone, hoping it was Beka.

It wasn’t.

-CanadianMoron-  
_You went to the trouble of switching your keyboard just to call me an idiot in russian? You must really like me then. ;)_

Yuri blinked, still dazed. He definitely _did not_ bark a hysteric laugh at that text. His shoulders were still shaking when he typed

_You must have banged your head on the ice one time too many if you think I’d ever like you. You’re the most annoying person I know. And I train with Victor and Katsudon._

Inhale. And exhale.

-CanadianMoron-  
_Who’s Katsudon? o.O_

Inhale. Yuri typed

_Yuuri Katsuki._

And exhale. The reply was immediate

-CanadianMoron- **  
** _Why do you call him Katsudon?_

Yuri sighed, his hands steadier as the typed

 _It’s a long story_.

Another ping.

-CanadianMoron-  
_Now I’m curious. Come on tell me. Pretty please..._

Yuri blinked. Did Leroy just asked him something nicely?

 _Fine…_ he began typing, trying to convey the absurdity of the whole tale. Yuri was still baffled at how fucking oblivious Katsudon had been. Even Yuri who had been barely 15 at the time had been able to see what Victor was trying to do. But Yuuri had been clueless.

Fucking pork cutlet bowls.

He shook his head, typing on.

His breaths were no longer trapped inside his chest, but Yuri did not notice it.

 

The music blared loudly in the rink. As Christmas had come and gone, the Nationals were beginning to draw closer with each day. They did not worry Jean too much, he knew he could defend his gold without much struggle. But he also knew that he needed to improve his routine if he wanted to hope to win the Four Continents and Worlds. And after watching Yuri’s performance at the Russian Nationals, Jean had thrown himself into practice with renewed vigour. He needed to improve his own interpretation.

He skated his short program, executing it to perfection, but as he exited the final pose, Jean did not need to watch the video recording to know he had not conveyed any emotion. But how did they do it? How did they manage to bare their soul through their motions?

Skating to the edge of the rink, Jean took a water bottle, gulping down its contents. His mother passed him the phone, silently. His parents did not understand what he was struggling with. They had won their Olympic golds in ice dancing with a soulful performance. It was all about perfecting technique as far as they were concerned. The artistic component was a given, it was something that came so natural to them, to Mélanie too, that no one understood what he was missing.

Especially now that his routine was as technically challenging as the choreography allowed.

Jean huffed in frustration, giving the phone back to his mother and skating back to the middle of the rink. He wished that gold at Worlds more than anything. But even making the podium would be a victory in itself.

It would not be what he wanted, but it sure would soothe his bruised ego. The past two GPFs had not done it any good, flubbing his short in Barcelona and getting fourth place by a fraction of a point in Marseille. Perhaps it would not be possible to dethrone Victor, but at least Katsuki and Plisetsky he could beat. And who knew, maybe he’d find a way to retaliate and get Yuri to hang one of Jean’s posters in his room.

Now _that_ would probably make it up for not getting on the podium in Marseille. He chuckled, getting ready to skate his short once again.

The music started and Jean began to skate. His limbs moved on their own accord, while his mind spaced. He thought about the younger skater and how strange it had been to talk to him after the Russian Nationals.

Jean had only meant to congratulate him, but in the end he had spent hours to no end texting with him and laughing at the terseness of Yuri’s storytelling. It was odd, because in the past two years Jean had tried more than once to approach the younger skater at competitions, but he had always seemed to rub him the wrong way. However, something had changed in France.

Yuri had been his usual angry self and had hurled insults left and right, but he had also replied to Jean’s texts. Moreso, he had told Jean about Victor and Yuuri, and how silly the two skaters could be. He had told him about Mila, whom Yuri had claimed would be dead for having given Jean his number. Yuri had recounted Georgi’s obsession with his ex, which had cast a new light on the older skater’s performances. Jean had cringed a bit, remembering too vividly his own reaction at Isabella’s new relationship, but it had been nice to talk to Yuri. To type back stories about Chris and the mysterious man who was allegedly married to the Swiss skater. Or share anecdotes about Altin that had had Yuri very interested. To put it in his words, he had wanted to get blackmail material on his friend.

Jean huffed a silent laugh. He had spent most of Christmas Eve typing away with a heartfelt grin on his face. It had not happened in a while

Suddenly the music trailed to an end and Jean found himself once again in his finishing position. He blinked, panting in exertion. Had he just skated the whole short without even thinking about what he was doing?

Shaking his head he skated back to his mother, who had a pleased expression on her face. There were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes that deepened as her lips pulled into a genuine smile.

“Maman?” he inquired with a frown.

“Look, Jean.” she told him brightly, giving him his phone once again “You have to see this.”

Jean’s frown deepened, but he did as instructed. After all he was a bit curious at how would it look. He had never zoned out so completely during a routine.

He pressed play and the video started.

Two and a half minutes later, Jean looked up at his mother’s smiling face, feeling his heart beat loudly in his ears. He could feel excitement bubble in his chest. And he hugged his mother over the rink barrier, tightly wrapping his arms around her short form.

He didn’t know what had done the trick. He truly had no idea. But _this_ routine had been heartfelt. It had been everything he wanted it to be. It had been true. And filled with emotions.

Jean shook his head in disbelief. He had never skated so well.

 

The rattling of pans filtered through the door. His Grandfather was humming something as he prepared dinner. Shapka snuggled in Yuri’s lap, purring lazily, and he tangled his fingers in her soft fur, petting her softly. After getting back from Chelyabinsk Yuri had asked Yakov to give him a week off to see his Grandfather. He was well aware that they had to train for the Europeans, but he had hoped to be able to get at least a couple of days in Moscow. He had been ready to argue with Yakov, to scream and stomp his way through the discussion until the old man sighed in defeat.

Yuri had definitely not expected his coach to give in without any complaint.

Even Lilia had said nothing when he had packed his suitcase before leaving Saint Petersburg. For a whole week.

And Yuri was pissed off. Deeply, scorchingly. Because they truly must had given up him.

How dare they just cast him aside? Yes, he had fucked up in Marseille. Yes, he had not defended his gold, but had gotten a _bronze_ instead. But Georgi had never gotten close to the GPF podium and yet Yakov supported him, yelling at his mistakes so he could become a better skater. And there were other rinkmates who never even got invited at the Grand Prix and Yakov still worked with them. So what had made his coach decide to give up on him?

Was it his weakness? His eyes prickled with angry tears.

But he was not going to cry.

Fucking Yakov. Fucking Lilia. Who cared about them? He could find another coach. Hell, he might just ask Victor to coach him, just to spite Yakov. His shoulders shook, but Yuri was _not_ going to cry.

Shapka rolled on her back, exposing the soft fur of her belly and Yuri swallowed down the bitterness. He combed the fur with his fingers, trying to push it all back. All the anger. All the fucking disappointment.

Because the thing was Yuri did _not_ want another coach. He did not want to move away from Lilia’s house. He wanted, for once, for people to stay in his life. Why the fuck did everyone always have to leave?

Yuri pushed his knuckles into his eyes until spots appeared on the back of his lids. Shapka meowed in complaint, before jumping off his lap.

He inhaled deeply, trying to calm down. He was in Moscow for a reason. And it wasn’t just to see his Grandfather and eat his fill of _pirozhki_.

Yuri had promised to send his old skates to the Canadian idiot’s sister, and he would. He could not bear the notion of owing anything to Leroy, never mind the idiot had been bearable the other day.

Angrily wiping the corners of his eyes, Yuri got up from the edge of his bed and opened the wardrobe. He pulled out the box with his old skating gear and opened it. He had several pairs of old skates. Yuri took out the black ones that had won him the GPF last year.

His feet had grown and he had recently acquired a new pair. But he was still very fond of those old skates. They had been custom made to facilitate his jumps. And they had written Yuri’s name in history.

The first skater to win the Grand Prix on his Senior debut.

He had been the first skater in the history of fucking figure skating to do that, at the age of fifteen, and his coaches were giving him the cold shoulder? They should be proud of him. They should push him to do better, to strive to greatness. They should yell at him to get his ass back on the rink. He had Euros to prepare for. But no, they had given him a week off without batting an eye. Yakov had just sighed. Lilia had just pursed her lips. Only Victor had asked him if he was sure. Shouldn’t he wait after the Euros to see his Grandfather? Yuri had bit something back at him and left the rink. They no longer fucking cared. They had given up on him.

And it was all his fault. Because he was too weak. Because something had broken inside of him.

Yuri gripped the skates, wanting nothing more than to fling them across the room. To rip them apart until nothing but the sharp blades were left. He wanted to destroy this ugly feeling, these stupid fucking tears that were welling again in his eyes.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

No. He refused to just give up. His teeth grinded almost painfully and his grip on the skate guards was vice like. He would not give up. He loved skating. He wanted to skate. And if Lilia and Yakov didn’t care about him they could just fuck off.

His anger was now a simmering heat inside him. He was weak, he was broken. He also did not give a fuck. He would skate. And he would do it for the ice. Because he had already rewritten history. He had done it with these skates. At fifteen. And out of pure spite. Now he would skate because he wanted to. He would skate because it was what he did.

Yuri looked at the skates in his hand and suddenly he knew a better way to use them.

It was perfect.

He got to his feet and rummaged through his backpack until he fished out a white sharpie. He uncapped it and swiftly signed both skates. Then, making sure the autograph was visible, Yuri snapped a photo.

He posted it on Instagram, tagging the self proclaimed King. The caption read:

_For my greatest fan, the skates than won gold. They should get there in a week._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you for all the comments and kudos! You are amazing. <3

_ “His wings are clipped and his feet are tied _ _  
_ _ So he opens his throat to sing.” _

_ Maya Angelou, I know why the caged bird sings _

 

It was bitter cold. The early January wind whipping the snowflakes angrily into their faces as they walked out of the large glass doors of the airport. Yuri could feel his cheeks quickly grow numb and buried his nose in the folds of his scarf, pulling his luggage behind him. Victor was striding next to him, for once not filling the silence with pointless chatter. The darkness of the winter day had grown deep, and in the orange light of the street lamps the snow glowed like frozen embers. The sound of their footsteps drowned in the howling of the wind. Yuri pulled his hood lower over his head. Strands of hair clung to his face, wet from the melted snow that brushed against his skin. 

The airport parking lot was not far away but they were both shivering by the time they managed to get inside the car. Victor started the engine tuning the heating on.

“Fucking cold.” Yuri muttered, taking off his wet gloves and putting his hands above the air vent 

Victor hummed in agreement, putting into gear. He drove them out of the airport and into the late afternoon traffic. The cars were moving at a sedated pace as the road filled with a gooey film of slush. The sharp white of the headlights painted the snow in a bluish hue that seemed almost unnatural. Yuri looked away from the road and glanced at Victor, who was driving in the same comfortable silence they had been in ever since Yuri had met with him at the airport.

The older skater had been mildly surprised when Yuri had called him from Vnukovo, telling him he would be landing in Saint Petersburg in a bit over an hour, and demanding a ride to Lilia’s place, but there had been no hesitance in his voice when he had readily agreed. 

Normally Yakov would have picked Yuri up at Pulkovo, but with the way things stood, Yuri had not wanted to have to deal with his coach more than necessary. He had planned to take a cab, but just before boarding the plane, Yuri had remembered how Victor had been the only one worried by his sudden departure for Moscow. The only one who had actually cared about Yuri’s career, when even his coaches had not deemed him important anymore. It was disenheartening to know only Victor cared. To know the only one he could rely on was the same man he had had to follow to Japan to have him make good of his promise. 

But beggars could not be chooser. And so, striding across the tarmac of the Moscow airport, Yuri had reached a decision. And called him.

He had spent the entire flight from Moscow to Saint Petersburg weighing his possibilities, for once not eager to act on impulse. Everything was still uncertain, and Yuri felt the tiny tendrils of fear linger in his limbs. He still felt confused and betrayed, but the week he had spent in Moscow had cleared his head somewhat. After two days of sitting in his Grandfather’s apartment and idling away with his cat, Yuri had began to grow antsy. So he had fetched his skates and got on a public rink. 

Yuri needed to skate,  _ wanted  _ to skate. And yes, it pissed him off that his coaches had given up on him. But they were not going take away the ice from him. So, he would take what they could give for as long as they were willing to. And he would find a way to win. With or without them. 

“Victor.” he said, breaking the silence of the car. It was now or never, he could not wait any longer. He needed an anchor in the storm.

“You promised me a choreography.” he said harshly, trying to mask the hesitation in his voice.

“I haven’t forgotten this time, Yurio.” Victor told him with an amused grin, trying to ruffle his hair and Yuri batted away his hand with more force than necessary. 

“Yuuri made sure to remind me.” the older skater added with a soft smile.

“Good.” Yuri bit back angrily, fuelled by Victor’s lightheartedness “Because as soon as this season is done, I want my new choreography.” 

“And it better be a free skate!” he added with a snarl.

Victor turned his head sharply to glance at Yuri, amusement melting into confusion.

“Isn’t Lilia going to do the free…” Victor began, but Yuri interrupted him with a snarl.

“I don’t give a fuck about Lilia!” 

Victor blinked twice, taken aback. His silver brows furled into a frown. He opened his mouth to speak, only to snap it shut a moment later. The older skater looked like he was internally debating with himself while he kept his eyes firmly on the road. Yuri scowled, feeling the the uncomfortable wash of embarrassment at his outburst. But he wanted to skate. And Lilia and Yakov would not take it away from him. 

But to do that he needed a choreography at the very least. 

Yuri had never had to worry about his yearly contract with Yakov being renewed at the end of the season, but with the way Lilia and him had acted since Nationals, Yuri was not so certain anymore. He needed to be ready for the worst. 

Finding a new coach would not be difficult, he was an international figure skater after all and a Grand Prix gold medalist. But he didn’t want to leap into the unknown just like that. And if Victor choreographed him a free skate he would at least have the certainty of something in the upcoming season.

They stopped at a red light and Yuri cleared his throat

“So, are you gonna choreograph my free or not?” he asked quietly, trying to mask his insecurity.

Victor gave him a long look, blue eyes inquisitive but not harsh. 

And nodded.

“If you want me to, I’ll do it.” he told him seriously “But…”

“I want you to.” Yuri interrupted him and Victor nodded once again

“Very well.” he told him, putting into gear as the light turned green “I’ll choreograph you a free.”

“It better be a winning one, old man.” Yuri spat, itching to have this conversation done with, but also needing to be sure.

“Of course.” Victor laughed, waving a hand in the air and Yuri glared at him, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding.

 

The harsh white light reflected off the ice. The glare was blinding as ever and Jean lifted his eyes towards the rink’s large windows. They were completely dark, frost like spiderweb on the glass. He circled aimlessly on the ice, feeling the sweat on his skin slowly cool. He had been training for hours on end, trying to perfect his routines before the Nationals, and his muscles were a tight coil of aches and exhaustion. As he glided backwards he wondered if he could manage one more round before calling it a day. 

Launching himself into an upright spin, he could feel the tension of the past weeks gather in the tautness of his shoulders. Maybe he would be better off bringing his training to a close after all. He would only risk injury if he overworked himself. 

And yet, Jean was not ready to step off the ice. 

He wanted to recreate the flawless routine he had managed to perform in training back in December, after the Russian Nationals. The one he had not deleted from his phone, watching it late at night when he couldn’t sleep because he raked his brain trying to figure out just  _ what  _ had he done differently.

What was the key?

He had initially thought it had been the state of borderline fugue he had experienced, skating the whole program without paying any attention whatsoever to his motions. But after weeks of trial and error Jean had begun to wonder if he was perhaps looking in the wrong direction.

Perhaps his routine hadn’t been improved by him not thinking about it, but rather by  _ what  _ he had been thinking about in his distraction.

If only he could remember, though.

Jean sighed loudly, shaking his head. He had not paid enough attention to his thoughts back then to be able to recall them weeks afterwards. And it was frustrating. 

He lazily skated in figures eight, trying to shake off the undercurrent of irritation that tingled under his skin. He had managed to skate a routine to perfection, outdoing himself. But he was not able to do recreate it.

And Nationals were in a couple of days.

While Jean knew that if he managed to get the scores he got at the GPF he would defend his gold without much trouble at the Nationals, he could not stop thinking about the Four Continents looming closer with each day. He had a month. Four weeks before he would be facing Katsuki who not only had five quads in his routine and the stamina to pull most of them in the second half, but had an artistic expression that Jean could not compete with. 

The only silver lining was that Katsuki was a wild horse, he could break records but he could also flub jumps too easily. He didn’t know if it was nerves or something else, but if it gave Jean a chance to step on the podium, he was not complaining.

Nevertheless, Jean was not going to place his bets on Yuuri performing poorly. He needed to up his routine so he could compete against him. And then later at Worlds, against Nikiforov and Plisetsky. He needed to skate the way he had skated back in December. 

He jumped into an Axel, pumping all his frustration in the rotations. He landed it on two feet, but skated on. He was at loss, at that was the most frustrating thing. Because in all the years of skating, Jean had always focused on his body alone. Teaching it to do certain moves, certain jumps, to grow stronger, more flexible. It had always been about muscles and joints and physics. His mind had been no more than background noise while he was skating. The only time his thoughts had taken over during a competition had been the day of the short program in Barcelona. And that had costed him a gold.

But now he had to rely on something unreliable. He had to dig into his mind to create the synergy of movement and thought that would put him on that podium. 

And he felt entirely inadequate. 

It was almost ironic. Jean could still remember the confidence he used to have two seasons ago. How all the way until the short program in Barcelona he had been sure of his gold. Getting first place in each qualifier had boosted his confidence to the tipping point and Jean had been on top of the world. 

Sometimes he wondered if something had given way that day in Barcelona. Because in hindsight it had been a downward slope ever since. From second place he had fallen to fourth at the GPF and unless he managed to find the missing piece of the puzzle, his chances to step on the podium at Worlds this season were slim.

He pursed his lips moving diagonally across the ice before jumping into a Lutz. He was rotating up in the air when he realised he was not going to land it cleanly. His skate hit the ice badly and he rolled on his side. He muttered a curse and got back to his feet. It was going to bruise.

”Jean” his father called, probably having seen him fall the triple “We should head home.” 

Jean nodded, sagging his shoulders as he skated towards the exit. His calves and thighs ached, and he could still feel the chill of the ice through his clothes where his body had rolled on it after the fall.

His father passed him the guards, giving him a small tired smile. There were deep dark circles around his eyes that spoke of the breakneck speed their parents were working at to prepare Jean and Mélanie for the Nationals. They would leave for Ottawa in a couple of days.

“You can win.” his father said, walking with him towards the lockers.

“I can win the Nationals.” Jean corrected him “But it won’t be enough to win Four Continents or Worlds. It needs to be better.”

And time was ticking.

 

It was snowing heavily outside. The streets of Saint Petersburg were shrouded in a thick blanket of white that kept growing and growing. Yuri had gotten out of the rink just as the first flakes had began falling on the frozen ground and the ride to Lilia’s home had been a slow crawl through traffic. When they had finally made it to her home, Yuri had gotten under a scorchingly warm shower to try and get his circulation back to normal. 

He wrapped his wet hair in a towel, plopping down on his bed. His room was empty without Shapka, but it had been nearly two years since Yuri had moved in Lilia’s home, and his cat had gotten back to Moscow. The prima ballerina had categorically refused to have pets in her house. Coupled with a strict daily routine that had made his years in the Junior division seem like a holiday, life with Lilia had been filled with sacrifices Yuri had been glad to make. 

Anything to get that gold. To keep winning. To show the world he was worthy.

Yuri scowled, opening his laptop. It seemed like a moot point now. Ever since he had gotten back from Moscow things had been more tense than ever with his coaches. And while Yuri refused to be cowed by their dismissal, firm in his resolution that he was going to skate no matter what, he could not help feeling unmoored. It was like lifting his eyes to look outside the bus window and not recognising the street he was in. He knew he wanted to skate. And he was going to, no matter what.

He stubbornly practised, over and over, not giving in to whatever weakness festered inside him. Because Euros were approaching and he  _ was _ going to skate his best. Because the ice deserved nothing less. It was the only thing in his life other than his Grandfather that had never disappointed him.

Skating was his life. And no one was going to take it away from him.

The disappointment in his coaches tasted bitter in his mouth, and it irritated him. With a scowl Yuri opened his browser and clicked on the link to the livestream channel of the Canadian Nationals. 

The Juniors were skating today and he wanted to see Leroy’s sister. Anyone who could make the idiot tape a poster of Yuri on his bedroom wall was a person worthy keeping an eye out for. 

Besides, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. He sure as hell was not going to loiter around the living room with Lilia and Yakov. 

Two girls finished their respective routines before it was Mélanie Leroy’s turn. Now that he knew she was the idiot’s sister, Yuri could see the resemblance. They had the same tawny skin and dark hair. And just like the older Leroy, the girl had dark blue eyes that shone brightly. The camera followed her as she skated around the rink before stopping in the centre. 

Her bright yellow costume fit well with the grin she was sporting on her face. It reminisced the one her idiot brother sported often, but there was something sincere about it. It was not boisterous, just cheerful.

A charleston began playing and the mini Leroy began gliding around the ice in counters, vivaciously moving her body. She moved across the ice and leapt in a jump. A triple Salchow, followed by a toe. She rotated once, twice, thrice. Yuri’s lifted his eyebrows. The girl had added a second triple to her routine.

She was already jumping into a double Loop and landed it smoothly. An Ina Bauer and then she moved into a layback spin, catching her foot and turning it into a Bielmann. It was a good execution, but Yuri’s was still better. His lips curled into a ghost of a smile. His ability to pull the more feminine moves on the ice was one of the few assets he was happy to be still able to count on.

The younger skater moved right in tune with the catchy music before leaping into a double Axel that sprung out of nowhere just as the music changed pace, getting faster. A combination spin and then she entered a long and complex step sequence. It was a level four if Yuri saw any. Leroy’s sister was truly good, Mila was going to have more than just Sara Crispino to worry about once the mini Leroy made her Senior debut. A flying camel spin and she was done, panting and grinning wider than what Yuri thought possible. 

The crowd cheered as she bowed and picked several plushies from the ice. She skated out of the ice and the camera captured her parents’ embrace. And behind them Yuri caught a glimpse of the self proclaimed King, who was looking at his sister with an expression of fondness that made something twist in Yuri’s gut. There was a glint in his eyes that made them look warm for all that they were very blue. And his lips pulled into a beaming smile that had nothing to do with the stupid grin he usually wore. 

Yuri swallowed just as the camera switched to the kiss and cry.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, but Jean was used to it. He looked at the scores as they appeared on the screen and pumped his fist in the air when it read 53.72. She was in the lead with a margin of more than 3 points. Mélanie was gaping at the camera, stunned. Their father was giving her a bear hug, and Jean’s cheeks were beginning to ache from grinning too much. Mél had been stunning, changing her double toe to a triple at the last moment and pulling that Biellmann. It was not part of the choreography, because she had been struggling with it, but the way she had transitioned from the catch foot layback spin into it, had been flawless.

Their mother thought Mél was not ready to make her Senior debut next season, but Jean was beginning to doubt that. 

He remained behind the barrier to watch the remaining two skaters perform their shorts and place respectively fifth and tenth. For the first time since she had began competing Mélanie was in the lead at the Nationals. With a bit of luck they would be bringing home two gold medals by the end of the week.

“I think Queen M sounds like a good counterpart for King JJ, what do you say?” he asked his sister when he joined her in the locker room. 

“It sounds silly.” she bit back with an unimpressed look “King JJ sounds silly too, you know that, right?”

“When did you turn so sassy?” he asked her with a laugh “And I’ll have you know I like my nickname very much. And Tommy agrees.”

Mélanie rolled her eyes, but she was smiling while she laced her trainers.

“Are you nervous for the free tomorrow?” he asked her and she shrugged, lifting her head to look at him.

“I don’t know.” she admitted, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement. “It’s so strange. I mean, if I win I’ll be going on Junior Worlds, right?”

“Most likely.” their father replied, strolling in the locker room “We have three slots this year.”

“Oh god.” she breathed “Okay, I can do this, right?”

“You can do this.” Jean replied with a grin “Now let’s get out of here, Tommy will want to congratulate you.”

His sister gathered her belongings and they made their way out of the locker room. Mél was looking at her phone, and Jean remembered he had not turned his on. He fished it out of Team Canada jacket pocket and looked as a flood of notifications filled his screen. Between the various social media there was a text notification.

-YuriP-   
_ I told you she could pull triples.  _

Jean felt his lips pull into an even larger grin as he swiftly typed back.

_ You watched it live? XD _

A moment later his phone pinged.

-YuriP-   
_ Obviously, moron. _

They were walking out of the arena and Jean shook his head, tapping his screen.

_ Will you watch me too? ;) _

-YuriP-   
_ I’m not staying up until 4am to watch you live. _

He replied

_ I got up early to watch you. _

Which was not exactly true, since he had already been up to get some training done, and ended up watching the Japanese Nationals instead. It had been half past nine by the time the Russian free had begun. But Plisetsky didn’t need to know that. It was too much fun needling him.

The younger skater predictably didn’t reply.

 

It was three in the fucking morning. The alarm clock blared on his nightstand, over and over, Yuri cursed in the warmth of his pillow before throwing the comforter away and crawling out of his bed. He walked barefoot to the desk and took his laptop before getting back under the covers. He couldn’t really believe it he was willingly awake in the middle of the night just to watch JJ fucking Leroy skate. But Yuri would be damned if he allowed the Canadian to one up him on this. He had watched Yuri skate in spite of time zones? Well Yuri was surely not one to back off from a challenge.

As the livestream loaded he yawned tiredly. The only saving grace was that he had the Sunday morning off from practice. His computer connected and Yuri watched the finishing motions of a skater he was not familiar with. Leroy was thankfully the last to skate, so Yuri had been able to get at least a semblance of sleep. 

Two more skaters performed their free skating, one of them getting in the lead while the other missed his chance for the podium. And then the announcer was calling Leroy’s name. 

The older skater got on the ice, all cocky grins and arrogance. His costume glittered under the lights as he did his moronic pose. Yuri scowled in annoyance, before another yawn made him sink deeper under his comforter, laptop placed on the bed to his right. 

After a few more camera-friendly smiles, the idiot’s hands fell down to his sides. Yuri frowned lightly. There was something different in his posture. The music started, soft and sad at the same time and the tall Canadian let himself go. He glided diagonally entering a Lutz almost effortlessly. His arms rose high above his head as he rotated. He landed neatly moving into a step sequence. He was not as good as Katsudon, but Yuri still liked the footwork. A quad flip-triple toe combination followed, and Yuri wondered just when had nearly everyone began putting quad flips in their routine. 

It was all Yuuri’s fault.

Leroy exited a camel spin and moved into an Ina Bauer positioning himself for an Axel. A solid triple. It was the second half of the routine and the exhaustion was visible on Leroy’s face when he landed a quad toe. He moved across the ice, gliding along with the music before he did a quad Lutz-double toe-double loop combination. He touched the ice with his hand in the landing. It was obvious the idiot was pushing himself to his limits, trying to use Katsudon’s strategy of putting jumps in the second half of the routine. But Yuri admired the effort. Leroy wanted to win. He was going to be decent competition at Worlds.

Yuri found himself looking forward to it. Competing against him. Seeing him face to face. 

The idiot had been bearable lately and Yuri was curious to see if it would last once they were actually in the same room. When during a skype call he had mentioned to Beka how he texted with Leroy every now and then, the Kazakh had lifted his eyebrows into the line of his hair. And for some strange reason, Yuri had felt mildly embarrassed to admit that not only he hadn’t felt the urge to throttle him in a while, but that he almost looked forwards to those conversations with the idiot. Well, the latter he might have kept to himself. He could not let Otabek think he had grown soft.

The Canadian finished his routine to an explosion of cheers and Yuri was dragged back to the present. He watched Leroy get back to his usual extremely annoying self, what with his stupid photogenic grin and his idiotic pose. He almost flipped the lid of his laptop shut, but he  _ did _ want to see what score the moron got. 

 

The cameras flashed. Cheers and applauses cascaded from the stands. And Jean flashed his trademark grin as he kissed the gold around his neck. He moved on autopilot. A group photo with the other two medalists. His parents beaming at him, proud of his new victory. Descending from the podium and making his way off the ice. There were interviews to be done and he had to get out of his skates and costume first. Everyone congratulating him as he passed them by and Jean flashing them his grin, every now and then reminding them winning is “JJ Style”.

It was almost like brushing his teeth in the morning, every motion ingrained so deeply inside him he didn’t have to think about them. Some female skaters stopped him on his way to the lockers, batting their eyelashes and jutting their hips to the side. And Jean grinned at them, flirting his way through the conversation. It was so easy, almost like breathing. He got a phone number scribbled down on his palm, promising he’d text when he was around, but really wondering if the ink would wash off easily.

Jean walked into the locker room and all but collapsed on the bench. He leaned his head forward, pressing it between his knees. Every muscle in his body was screaming. He had packed the second half of his routine with jumps to get more points, but his stamina had barely held. He had not felt it in the daze of the performance, his mind carefully blank. But as his muscles cooled down the pain of exertion rippled up his limbs. 

And his cheeks ached from all the fake smiles he had delivered in the past twenty minutes.

He breathed, watching the grey tiles on the floor.  

Sometimes it was so tiring to keep up the public persona everyone expected him to have. The cheerful, grinning, larger than life skater who had no shame to call himself the King. Over the years Jean had built himself a reputation that was growing farther and farther from the person he was. But it was just what was expected of him. Everyone was happy, his fans, his sponsors, his competition. Nothing unexpected. It’s JJ style. He could not show them the empty feeling he got when he saw the old pictures of Isabella and himself on his Instagram. Or the knot of sadness that gripped him when he looked at the small velvet box tucked in the deepest corner of his drawer. When he thought about how different his life was from what he had envisioned in his teens. 

He was not the world champion, he was not going to marry Izzy. His wings had been clipped, but he had to pretend he could still fly. 

Jean exhaled loudly, lifting his head. It was what it was, and he had to do his part. Skating was his career. And if all it took was plastering a smile and pretending everything he was on top, then he could do it. 

With a sigh he got to his feet and opened his locker, taking out his belongings. He made a quick work of unlacing his skates. His feet were mottled with bruises but that was nothing strange. Jean slipped his socks on before peeling his costume off and putting his clothes on. His own brand of clothes, naturally. They went hand in hand with his trademark smile, trademark sign, and trademark phrase. 

Jean curled his lip, frowning. What had gotten into him today? 

He was never so bitter. 

Shaking his head he went to the sink and scrubbed off the scribbled number from his palm, washing his face with cold water. As he pulled the paper towel and dried his skin, he felt a bit better. He grinned at his reflection, forcing his eyes to follow until there were wrinkles at the corners and it looked genuine enough. He had an interview to do. He had won, cheerfulness was expected. 

Before he walked out of the locker room and stepped into the press conference shark tank, Jean checked his phone. There were hundreds of notifications and several text messages. He scrolled quickly through them. Until he reached a text from Yuri. 

-YuriP-   
_ Can’t wait to kick your ass at Worlds. Also, fuck time zones. _

Jean stared at the text for a moment, before shaking his head and laughing out loud. It was the most backhanded congratulations he had ever gotten. It was refreshing.

He grinned, pressing reply.

_ So you did watch me! _

He walked out of the locker room, putting his phone on silent. The Russian’s snarky comment had lifted his spirits and he followed the noise towards the press conference with more genuine cheer than he had expected. The room was full of cameras and reporters and the other two medalists were already sitting behind the table. Jean weaved his way to them, plastering his magazine cover smile and winking at the occasional blushing reporter.

The questions were always the same, and the answers too. Jean made his way through it on autopilot, nodding when appropriate, cheekily grinning when it was expected, reassuring the world that yes, this was the year Canada would get a gold at Worlds. Same old, same old.

It felt endless and yet it passed in the blink of an eye. His exhausted muscles wanted nothing but a warm shower and a bed, but he somehow managed to get out of the arena and into the car. The upside was that it was going to be a quick ride to the hotel where they were staying. It might have been just two hours of travel from Montreal to Ottawa, but going back and forth for the duration of the Nationals would have been too exhausting, so Jean, his parents and Mél were staying in a hotel in Ottawa. 

His sister sat down next to him on the backseat and Jean leaned back, feeling overwhelmingly tired. With a stifled yawn he took his phone out to pass the time. 

There was another message from Yuri

-YuriP-   
_ It was not like your FS at the GPF.  _

Jean quickly typed back, his exhaustion waning for a moment.

_ You liked it? I worked on the performance. _

The reply arrived a moment later.

-YuriP-   
_ It didn’t suck. _

And Jean could not stop himself from laughing. His sister eyed him questioningly but he ignored her, typing away while the streets of Ottawa blurred beyond the car window.  

 

A light breeze fluttered in the sun kissed air. After the biting chill of the snowstorm that had sent them off in Saint Petersburg, Ostrava seemed almost too warm. Yuri peeled off his jacket, walking in just his hoodie, as he followed the other skaters around the city. Emil was showing them around. The Czech skater had some relatives living nearby so he was quite familiar with it. He chattered loudly as he gave them an impromptu tour, peppering them with historical details that flew over Yuri’s head. 

Yes, it looked pretty. But frankly, he was bored. 

The weeks leading to the Euros had passed in a kind of a daze, and before Yuri had known it, they had been landing in Prague only to board another plane and get to Ostrava. The only saving grace of the long journey had been Victor getting chewed by Yakov when the older skater had insisted Yuuri should come with them. Katsudon had to train for the Four Continents and wasting nearly a week to cheer on Victor was something he could not afford. And even though Yuuri was not Yakov’s student, the notion itself had been so outlandish their coach had not been able to contain himself. Yuri had been amused at the choice of expletive their coach had used to point at the irresponsibility of it all every time Victor bemoaned Katsudon’s absence.

They walked off a large square and weaved in the paved streets. The sandy-haired skater was giving them the umpteenth lesson in local history, when Yuri began to wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to remain at the hotel. He had only come at Victor’s insistence. The older skater had pouted and given him puppy eyes that  _ did not  _ work on Yuri. Which he told him. More than once.

Still, he had relented, deciding that a walk would be better than being cooped up in his hotel room.

At least, it had seemed like a better option. Because Georgi was currently expressing his delight in the “romanticism of the scenery” and Yuri wanted to gag. Naturally Nekola, encouraged by this, started a lengthy explanation of the historical meaning of the ancient buildings and how they related to that person or another who had been married to that other noble person or or another. 

Gritting his teeth, Yuri fished his phone out, typing.

_ If I hear one more thing about Czech fucking history I’ll punch Nekola. _

The reply came almost immediately.

-CanadianMoron-   
_ Not worth getting disqualified from Euros. _

Yuri followed the group punching back a reply.

_ But it would make him shut up… _

-CanadianMoron-   
_ He’s probably trying to impress Sara.  _

Yuri snickered, throwing a glance towards the dark haired girl. She was hanging from Nekola’s lips. Yuri nearly groaned. He hated when Leroy was right. 

_ They are being gross. She’s worse than Mila. _

-CanadianMoron-   
_ I take it her brother is not there. XD _

Well, things would surely be more interesting if the other twin was here. He typed

_ I can’t believe I miss the creep. _

-CanadianMoron-   
_ Mickey makes things interesting. Have I told you about my last Junior Worlds? _

Yuri typed a “ _ No _ ”, in response. 

-CanadianMoron-   
_ You’re gonna love this… _

Jean grinned at his phone, typing away the most embarrassing tales he had about Crispino. It was surely better than studying another theorem.

Before Yuri had texted him Jean had been trying, and failing, to force himself to study. It was his day off the rink, and he was supposed to use the time to try and make some sense of the theorems he was struggling with. But ever since the Nationals his mind had been entirely devoted to skating. So instead of writing down formulas, he had been scribbling lyrics for a short program song on the margins of his book. Inspiration had struck him while he was trying to wrangle out a complex theorem. And he had been more than grateful for it. After all, he hadn’t written any song ever since the season had started. 

Yuri texting him had cemented his conviction that he would not be doing any studying on that particular morning. So the hours wore on with pieces of songs that itched to be written interspersed with the periodical chiming of his phone that had him dropping his pen in favour of reading the latest biting text from the Russian skater. It was a pleasant way to spend his time. And if a tiny tendril of guilt lingered in his mind, he knew he would eventually sacrifice a couple of hours of sleep to make it up for the time he was wasting not studying. 

He had just sent Yuri yet another text when a scream tore through the house. Jean’s heart skipped a beat and he leapt from his chair, phone tightly gripped in his fingers. He ran out of his room, alarmed at the sound of his sister’s screams. His heart was beating fast in his ears and adrenaline pumped in his limbs as he all but flew down the stairs. 

He reached the living room. 

And saw her jump up and down, alternating between squealing, and hugging Tommy and Toffee.

“Mél?” he inquired, trying to understand the tableau, slightly panting from the impromptu jog and the fright she had given him.

_ “Jean!”  _ she cried, turning to face him “Look! _ Look!  _ They have arrived. I can’t believe it..!”

Only then did he notice the cardboard box placed on the coffee table. He scooted closer, peering inside. A familiar looking pair of black skates stared back at him. Jean shook his head. He had nearly forgotten about it. Yuri had posted that picture on Instagram four weeks ago. The shipping service sure took their time delivering them.

“Let’s get a picture.” he told his sister after his heartbeat had gotten back to a normal pace and adrenaline ebbed. 

Mél nodded enthusiastically. 

He opened the camera app while she gingerly took the skates out of the box and proudly hugged them to her chest, posing, Jean snapped a photo.

“You can’t see the autograph like this.” Tommy complained, moving his sister’s arm a bit so the white signature was visible.

Then he nodded at Jean who chuckled before snapping more photos. 

After some deliberation, they chose one and Mél insisted on tagging him as well in the picture. 

“It will get more likes.” she explained with a shrug.

“Why do I feel exploited?” he complained shaking his head and plopping down on the couch. 

He punched in a text to Yuri.

_ The skates arrived and your greatest fan nearly gave me a heart attack. _

The response was immediate.

-YuriP-   
_ Don’t you dare! I can’t kick your ass if you don’t compete. _

Jean quickly replied

_ Aw, it’s so nice of you to care. XD _

-YuriP- _  
_ _ There’s no point in skating if there’s no real competition. _

Jean typed.

_ And finally we agree on something! _

And chuckled, imagining Yuri’s facial expression to that text. 

 

The morning of the short program dawned with a downpour that had made Yuri reconsider his initial praise of the local climate. In the few metres it took him to walk from the hotel sliding doors to the cab he had gotten drenched in spite of the umbrella Lilia was holding above them. 

His choreographer and coach looked entirely pristine in spite of the droplets of water dripping from her dark hair onto her face. Yuri on the other hand could feel his hair stick to his face and he pushed it off with an equally wet hand. The whole ride to the Ostravar Arena was a damp and uncomfortable business that had Yuri scowl darkly at everyone who made eye contact with him.

He stomped down to the locker room and peeled off his damp clothing. Thankfully he had had the foresight to pack a pair of sweatpants and another shirt for the warm-ups. They had official practice soon and he could only imagine how pleasant it would be to be wet in the chill fo the rink. 

Yuri scowled as he got changed, gritting his teeth. 

His mood had not been stellar when he had woken up that morning, but it was growing darker. And it had  _ nothing  _ to do with the fact he had no idea how he was going to skate today. 

Admittedly his practice had looked better ever since he had gotten back from Moscow, but he could not help the knot of apprehension from tightening in the pool of his stomach. And it disgusted him. He was becoming like Katsudon. Which was beyond the pale.

Yuri could feel himself grow angry. With himself, with his coaches, with fucking Katsudon who was an amazing skater when he stopped being scared of his own fucking shadow.

Fuck it all, Yuri was going to skate and do it well. He was not going to quiver in fear of failing. If he flubbed something, who fucking cared? He was a better skater than nearly anyone competing today, except maybe Victor. He had won the GPF on his Senior debut, mastered the quad Lutz and quad flip when he had been barely sixteen and he could do spins and figures most male skaters couldn’t. He was fucking good. And no amount of silence and disappointment from his coaches was going to change that.

Pulling on his practice clothes and skates with enough rage to scorch, Yuri got out of the locker room and towards the rink. 

 

Jean sipped his juice, opening his laptop on the kitchen table. It was eight in the morning and his siblings were at school, to his sister’s chagrin. The short program of the Europeans was about to begin and they would not be able to watch it live. Jean had decided to go the rink later in the day to train and his parents had not complained. It was important to see what he was going to face at Worlds in two months time. 

So after an early morning run he had gotten back just in time to take a shower and turn on his laptop. A commercial break was running, and Jean used the opportunity to fix himself a decent breakfast. Just as he began eating his pancakes a Spanish skater Jean had not encountered yet began skating. There were always many new faces at the Euros and Four Continents, and Jean liked to watch the different techniques, all the while scanning the future competition. Some of those unfamiliar skaters may very well compete against him in the near future. 

Yuri had been a prime example of it, winning the GPF gold on his Senior debut. It had been unprecedented, sure, but Jean knew he had underestimated him at the qualifiers that season. The Russian was a force of nature. A thick mixture of anger and spite which concealed a side of him Jean only got glimpses of. But that intrigued him.

Because there was more to Yuri Plisetsky than what appeared on the surface. More than the Russian Fairy and the Russian Punk. Those were just personas, masks to respectively wear on and off the rink. But underneath there was more. Far more. There was a sharp wit and a no nonsense attitude that made Jean enjoy their texting. It was refreshing to talk to someone who did not pull their punches. Who did not play nice because it was the polite way of doing things. Who made sure to insult him whenever Jean embodied the cheerful persona everyone liked. The only way to talk to Plisetsky was without pretences. 

And it was strange for Jean. He never got to be just himself with anyone other than his family. And Izzy, but she was no longer a factor he could count on. Everyone else knew him as JJ, elite skater, occasional rock star and holder of the rights to a clothing label. He could not disappoint them. He could not tell them the cocky King JJ of his teenage years had changed along the way, and had slowly become just Jean. 

While he mused, four more skaters performed their short programs to lackluster results. He put his plate in the sink and rinsed it before putting it into the dishwasher. The second to last group was about to skate. And  Jean was looking forward to seeing Yuri’s routine. 

 

The French skater was in the kiss and cry and Yuri looked at the rink, watching the novice skaters who picked the plushies and flowers from the ice until it was empty. A white, blank expanse broken only by countless wedges skates had cut into it. He squared his jaw waiting for his turn. The anger that had fuelled him through his practice had died down, simmering under the surface as he ignored his coaches in the same measure they were ignoring him.

Suddenly he was being called and he took his guards off, skating to the middle of the ice. He was going to do this. He could. He had done far more impressive feats. 

Yuri got in position and the music started. He moved, slowly, almost gently, putting all his ballet training in his motions. And then he leapt, landing into a flying layback spin. He extended his leg and arms upwards until he was spinning in a Biellmann. It was a fucking flawless one. Yakov and Lilia could go fuck themselves for all he cared. He glided on the ice before he took off in a quad Lutz-triple toe combination. And nailed it. 

They could not stop him. No one could stop him. 

His feet moved in the step sequence and then he spread his legs before flying into a quad Salchow. It was  _ his  _ jump. The quad he had wanted to do back in his Junior days but had been forbidden to. The one he had taught Katsudon how to land, and the Japanese had managed to execute smoothly at the Nationals. 

He spun into camel spin, changing his foot, and his thoughts seeped away like droplets of water from his hair. He was moving across the ice again and then he was up into the air. One. Two. Three and a half rotations, as he landed the Axel perfectly. The music was somewhere in the back of his mind, but he was somewhere else, somewhere where just the ice mattered and his confusion, his anger, fell off, piece by piece. 

It was not as flawless as his short in Marseille had been, but as he exited the last spin and moved into his final pose, Yuri knew he was one with the ice once again. And everything else didn’t matter. 

 

Jean watched Yuri get off the ice and walk to the kiss and cry. The commentators chattered vivaciously in a language Jean could not recognise, Czech perhaps, while Yuri’s jumps were shown in slow motion. His quad Lutz was flawless and Jean smirked. Just a year ago he was the only one landing that quad in competition. Now not only Yuri, but Nikiforov and Katsuki too had included it in their routines. 

The camera showed Yuri once again, sitting with his coaches in the kiss and cry. He had a strange expression on his face. There was a stiffness to his jaw that was not quite anger, nor nerves. Jean frowned. Suddenly the score appeared. And the blond just nodded. He was in first place for now. But there were four more skaters after him, including Nikiforov who was a sure bet for the gold. 

Jean watched the next skater get on the ice, but he could not get Yuri’s expression out of his mind. He was used to the Russian expressing a wide spectrum of enraged expressions and, to his surprise, even relatively pleasant ones. But this cold detachment was odd. 

The music began quietly and Jean snapped his attention back to Emil Nekola who was keeping his position as the first beats trailed on. The singer’s voice crooned and suddenly the was skating in slow but sharp movements. The toepick hit the ice and he was flying into a quad toe loop. Jean wasn’t very partial on the Czech skater’s style, his steps and motions too jerked. But it fit the music. 

The second half of the routine was approaching and he still had two more jumps to make. It was a good tactic, but Jean doubted Nekola would outscore Yuri. The base score of Yuri’s jumps was higher and his performance had been much better than the one at the Nationals. 

He watched as Nekola leapt into a triple loop-triple toe combination. And landed it cleanly. A triple Axel followed shortly. The Czech had stamina. Not comparable to Katsuki, but still better than his own. Jean had pushed himself beyond his limits on his free skate at the Nationals to be able to squeeze most of his jumps in the second half. It had been a poor substitute for the performance score he could have gotten had he managed to skate the way he had after the Russian Nationals, but at least it would give him a better shot for the podium at the Four Continents and Worlds.

The music began to slow down just as Nekola exited a flying camel spin. The Czech glided across the ice in a few more figures eight before coming to a stop in the middle of the ice. The crowd began cheering and applauding, a loud avalanche of fans happy their countryman was representing them. 

Nekola bowed, picked a plushie and then he was off.

 

The rain beat on the large window. The pitter patter was loud, deafening almost. A pitch too close to the white noise that still hummed in the background of Yuri’s mind. He tried to ignore it, brushing his hair in slow movements. It was still hot from the blow dryer and he was sure Lilia would be pissed he had washed it, making her work difficult. Not that he cared. He had woken up drenched in sweat and he had stumbled under the hottest shower his en suite bathroom could provide. The water had been scorching on his skin, so hot it had seemed nearly cold. But it had burned away the tendrils of sleep.  

The nightmare was still vivid in his mind. The darkness of his home rink, the biting cold of the ice on his bare feet. And the fear spiralling in and out of him, choking him, twisting his body until he was small so small. Six years old and all alone. In the dark. He had tried to break free, but the more he moved, the harder became the grip of the ice on him. It had felt like peeling his skin off, layer after layer, and still being stuck there, broken and alone. And so terrified. 

It was easier to think about it now that he stood in the middle of his hotel room with all the lights on, but Yuri could not forget the unabashed terror he had woken in. And the memory made him scowl at his own reflection in the mirror. 

He threw the brush on his bed and began braiding his hair, trying to banish from his mind the stupid weakness that kept following him. He had a free skate to do today and he was  _ not  _ going to let the broken edges of his mind fuck it all up. Again.

Yuri tied the end of his braid and opened his luggage, fishing out his costume. He had to get ready to leave for the arena after breakfast. And while there was still plenty of time, he needed to do something to keep his mind off the images that flashed through it every now and then.

He had just fetched his bag and unzipped it when his phone chimed. Setting it down, he unlocked the screen.

-CanadianMoron-   
_ Good luck today! _

Yuri looked at the text, scowling.

_ Fuck off _ , he replied, pressing send before he changed his mind. 

He knew Leroy was being polite, but Yuri had never been one for politeness in the first place, and besides, it cut too close to the worries that gnawed at him. His short may have been good, and Yuri may have decided many things since the GPF, but the thought of skating his free still made his hands tremble slightly. And he fucking hated it. 

Relying on luck was not something Yuri had ever done. And yet, it all boiled down to chance. He might skate it perfectly or he might flub it, like he had done in Marseille. 

His phone pinged and he opened the text.

-CanadianMoron-   
_ Mel says gold would look good with your costume. _ _  
_ _ I like it on mine better, but I’ll wait 4CC. ;) _

Laughter stirred somewhere in the pit of Yuri’s stomach and he shook his head. He could feel his tension easing a notch. He almost typed a  _ Thank you _ , but thought better of it. He had a reputation to uphold after all.

Heaving a breath he put his phone in his pocket and finished packing his bag. 

Leroy was right, gold would look good on his costume. It was time to make it happen.

 

Jean stretched his arms above his head, setting the laptop on his bed while he waited for Yuri’s score. He had cut his practice early that morning in order to get home in time to see the free Skate at the Europeans. But after over two hours of sitting behind his desk he felt his muscles complain. He lay down on the bed, putting his laptop on his thighs just as the score finally appeared on the screen. And it was high enough to put the Russian in first place. 

The blond nodded at the result, growing stiff when one of his coaches embraced him in a bear hug, while the stern looking woman pursed her lips in what Jean assumed was supposed to be approval. The camera lingered for a moment longer on the kiss and cry and Jean found himself observing the clenching of Yuri’s jaw. He seemed angry, which was not an unusual expression on the younger skater’s face, but with the flawless free he had delivered and score he had gotten, Jean could not see a reason for Yuri to be pissed off. 

The camera turned back to the ice and Jean’s observation was interrupted by Chris Giacometti’s entrance on the ice. On the short, Yuri had placed third, a bit over a point less than the Swiss. It gave Chris him a small chance to aim for silver at least. Gold was practically unattainable with Nikiforov in the game, after all. 

The music started with a slow but steady beat. Chris moved across the ice in rockers, gliding with a light sway of his hips. As the music increased in pace he performed a three turn before leaping in quad Salchow followed by a double toe. There was something almost melancholic about the music Jean had not noticed before. It was in the slow but intense beat that Chris underlined with his almost lascivious motions between the jumps. The Swiss spun before doing a step sequence that was filled with Chris’ own brand of seductivity. Jean shook his head with a grin. 

Another combination jump, soon followed by an Axel. And he under-rotated it into a double. Jean winced. It would cost him points. Chris kept skating, undeterred and leapt into a triple Lutz. And then another combination jump. The music kept beating with a velvet intensity that the Swiss translated in his motions, swaying his hips and sliding his arms down his torso during the choreographed sequence. The routine ended with a change of foot combination spin. A few more turns and Chris was falling down on his knees, spent. 

When the camera zoomed on his face, Jean could see the flush on his cheeks and his lips open as he panted. Jean chuckled, Chris managed to make skating look almost pornographic. He got up to his feet and bowed to the cheering audience. 

Jean wondered if the Swiss would manage to get in the lead. Turning his Axel into a double was going to surely cost him. Everything depended on the performance points. 

While he waited for the results, Jean kept his fingers crossed. 

He wanted Yuri to win.

 

The door slammed loudly. Yuri stomped through his hotel room, dropping his bag down on the floor with just enough care not to damage his skates. He’d have given anything to be able to throw it across the room, smashing something. He clenched his fists, breathing through his nose while he kicked off his shoes. 

He had gotten silver. His result for the free had been much better than the one at the GPF. Which was good. But Yuri was utterly and thoroughly pissed at his coaches. His nails dug into his palms as he tried to calm down. After ignoring him for weeks, barely correcting him in his mistakes, allowing him to go gallivanting around Moscow instead of practising, and generally not giving a fuck about him, Yakov and Lilia had the gall to be  _ pleased  _ at his result? 

He sat down on the bed, nearly panting in anger. He wanted to yell, to kick, to tell the world what kind of first class assholes he had as coaches. 

They were fucking proud of his result.  _ Proud _ .

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he took it out. Katsudon had written him a text congratulating him on his medal. Whatever. He almost locked his screen back, but he noticed there was another unread message. 

From Leroy.

-CanadianMoron-   
_ Good job on the Euros. Are you planning to ever kick Nikiforov’s ass or are you waiting for me to do it? _

His fingers flew over the screen.

_ I’m planning to kick both your asses.  _

The reply was almost immediate.

-CanadianMoron-   
_ Ambitious are we now? _

Yuri rolled his eyes.

_ You’re one to talk. _

-CanadianMoron-   
_ Oh, but it’s part of my charm _

He smirked, typing back 

_ You’re an idiot. _

And waited for his phone to chime, rolling his eyes at the Canadian. If nothing his anger had died down to a background hum. When the alert came he opened the text immediately. 

-CanadianMoron-   
_ Just an idiot? You’re losing your edge Yuri. _

He frowned.

_ Since when do you call me by my name? _

-CanadianMoron-   
_ I didn’t know you preferred the nicknames. _

Yuri was quick to type back.

_ I don’t! Yuri is fine. It’s just strange.  _

The reply came within seconds

-CanadianMoron-   
_ Why? _

And Yuri stared at the screen of his phone unsure of how to respond. He sprawled back on his bed. How could he explain how odd it was to be on friendly terms with the Canadian. Ever since they had crossed paths at Skate Canada a year and a half before, the older skater had teased him relentlessly, irking Yuri with his presence alone. He could hardly explain it to himself, let alone Leroy, why he was actually looking forward to his messages. Why he no longer found him the most irritating person alive.

Yuri wasn’t answering and Jean wondered if he had crossed a line there. He lifted his eyes from the dark screen of his phone and looked at the large poster hanging on the wall. The younger skater was so volatile sometimes, it was like walking in a minefield. The fact they had been able to communicate for two months without Yuri trying to claw his eyes out was nothing short of miraculous. Jean had been confident he had started to at least marginally understand the younger skater, but he may have been overconfident once again.

There was a tiny knot in his stomach growing tight. He didn’t want this to stop. Jean liked reading the cutting remarks Yuri made, dodging the occasional insult, and laughing at the blond’s dry wit. 

He had just opened his messaging app to write Yuri another text and do some damage control when his phone chimed in his hand, and Jean nearly sagged in relief

-YuriP-   
_ Is this strange? Us talking, I mean. _

Was it? 

_ I don’t know. I don’t mind. It’s actually nice,  _ he typed back, almost writing  _ “You’re nice” _ , but erased it before pressing send. 

-YuriP-   
_ Yeah, you’re ok I guess ,when you’re not being a dick. _

Jean laughed out loud, composing his reply

_ When have I ever been a dick? _ _  
_ _ I have on good authority that I’m very pleasant company. _

He pressed send.

And Yuri wasted no time in texting back

-YuriP-   
_ Do you want a fucking list?  _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some acronyms, because I've realised not everyone might be familiar with them:  
> SP - Short program  
> FS - Free skate  
> 4CC - Four Continents Figure Skating Championship  
> GPF - Grand Prix Final  
> JGP - Junior Grand Prix


	4. Chapter 4

_“there's a bluebird in my heart that_ _  
_ _wants to get out”_

_Charles Bukowski, Bluebird_

 

The sky was a muted grey. Thin winter clouds hung above the sea and the light breeze carried the wet smell of salt and algae. Jean leaned back on his hands, feeling his fingers dig in the soft sand of the beach. He listened to the sound of the waves rolling lazily and the distant cawing of the seagulls that dipped into the sea. The official practices had finished the day before and they had a day off before the short program, so Jean had decided to explore the small Korean town they were staying in during the Four Continents Championship.

Early in the morning it was very quiet and he had strolled down the seemingly endless beach for hours, taking pictures of the sea and uploading them on Instagram. It felt almost like being on vacation. There was something about the place that made him almost forget he had a fierce competition to beat at the upcoming event.

And yet it didn’t feel so. The evening before he had gone to dinner with a large group of skaters, most of whom he knew from the Grand Prix. It had been a loud gathering filled with people catching up and being happy to compete in the same championship. Admittedly Chulanont had done his utmost to make it seem like a proper social event, making sure everyone was having a good time and no one felt left out. But the Thai skater’s efforts had been met with enthusiasm from everyone involved. It had been a lively evening filled with cheer and light-hearted conversation. Even Altin had actually deigned to talk to Jean.

The two of them had never been overly friendly. During the two seasons the Kazakh had trained in Canada they had been acquaintances at best. So Jean had been pleasantly surprised to have the usually taciturn skater strike conversation with him. After a brief reminiscing of the time spent training together they had settled for a lengthy discussion on the merits of modern instrumental music. While Jean had always leaned more towards pop and rock, he enjoyed it every now and then. It was a good source for inspiration in songwriting, if nothing. Altin had explained to him how he liked mixing music in his spare time, and after some nagging from Jean he had promised to make him hear some of his mixes.

Otabek the DJ, Jean the singer and songwriter. He had joked they could always start a music project when they retired, and the surly Kazakh had actually laughed.

The evening had passed in a blur, leaving Jean far more relaxed than he had been when he had finally landed in South Korea. Some of the tension for the upcoming competition had seeped away and he felt more assured in his skills. He wanted to win, yes, but more than that he wanted to find that quintessence which had allowed him to skate better than ever back in December. And if he did not find it for the Four Continents it didn’t matter. Not even if he missed the podium at Worlds. He was twenty years old, twenty-one in July, he had time.

Outdoing himself was a greater achievement, after all, than outdoing Nikiforov or Katsuki.

Or Yuri.

Jean felt the ghost of a smile even as the cold breeze made a shiver travel down his arms. He was looking forward to meeting him on the ice in Helsinki for the World Championship. And not only to measure his skating against his. He found himself wanting to see the dry curl of the younger skater’s lips when he delivered one of his barbs, or the roll of his eyes when Jean overdid it with his cockiness. He could only imagine it, the shortness of text messages conveying only so much.

Another gust of wind made him feel the chill of sand under his trousers and Jean got up on his feet. It was barely noon, but the February air was not so forgiving. He sighed, giving a last wistful glance at the sea before he began walking back towards the hotel.

He had to compete tomorrow, he didn’t need to catch a cold.

 

The sound of blades echoed in the rink. Every now and then the sharp thud of a toepick broke the rhythm only to resume it once they landed the jump. Yuri was skating slowly, cooling down after hours of working on his routines. Yakov’s yells were the usual amount of loud, but there was a quiet over the ice, a hushed lack of something, that unsettled Yuri. Ever since Victor had left with Katsudon for South Korea the atmosphere at the rink had dropped several degrees. It felt like the harsh winter had seeped through the walls and lingered above the ice.

Yuri didn’t miss them, they were annoying on their best days. But in the past year he had gotten used to the borderline gross cheerfulness of the pair. To catching glances of them being cheesy with one another. Or flustered, as Katsudon still often became. It brought a certain liveliness in the February gloom of the Saint Petersburg training arena. And a distraction from the tense silence that lingered between Yuri and his coaches. If it were anyone else he would have thought they were tiptoeing around him, but Yakov and Lilia were the bluntest, harshest people he knew.

Their silence meant dismissal.

“Yuri, the short is about to begin.” Mila suddenly called, tearing him away from a train of thought he was not happy to have boarded in the first place

“Are you coming?” she asked, leaning against the barrier and he grunted something in response, skating towards the exit.

The Four Continents short programs were about to start. And just in time for their lunch break too. The redhead was naturally very excited since Beka was skating too. And while Yuri looked forward to seeing his friend on the ice, Mila’s constant chatter about it made him want to miss it out of spite. But he wouldn’t. No stupid hag would make him miss his friend’s skating.

He made his way to the locker room and took off his skates, Mila following him like a very loud and annoying shadow.

“Beka is skating among the last, you know.” he told her, after she gushed for the umpteenth time over the dark-haired skater. There were only so many times he could hear her tell him how hot Otabek was before his patience ran out.

But Mila was not so easily deterred.

“That hot Kazakh is worth the wait, Yuratchka.” she told with a smug expression while she waited for Yuri to close his locker “I mean, have you seen those _thighs?_ And those arms...”

Yuri followed her with a pained expression. He unlocked his phone.

_I never thought I’d say this but_ __  
_Mila is worse than Victor._ _  
__Also kick Katsudon’s ass_

He didn’t expect a reply, but when he took the plate of borscht and made his way to a table his phone pinged.

-CanadianMoron-  
_Do I want to know?_ _  
_ _Thanks. :)_

Yuri quickly typed back

_She’s gushing over Otabek. It’s gross._

-CanadianMoron-  
_I talked to him the other day._ _  
_ _Took me by surprise._

He lifted his eyebrows in surprise

_Really? What about?_

-CanadianMoron-  
_Skating, music and Canada._

_That sounds like a fucking description of you,_ Yuri replied.

-CanadianMoron-  
_What can I say, it’s JJ style!_

Yuri typed back

_Okay, I take it back. I hope Katsudon kicks your ass._

He put his phone down on the table, grabbing his spoon. An american skater Yuri was unfamiliar with was flubbing a quad toe and rolling on the ice in a way he knew was painful. His phone chimed.

-CanadianMoron-  
_He probably will though._

Yuri blinked.

_What the fuck, Leroy!_

Leroy didn’t reply right away and Yuri fumed, looking at the screen where Guang Hong Ji was just beginning his short. He had competed against the Chinese at Skate Canada this season and while he had improved since his Junior days, Yuri doubted Ji would make it to the GPF next season. The competition was too fierce.

A chime from his phone interrupted his musings about the Chinese skater.

-CanadianMoron-  
_Katsuki’s element score is close to mine but his program_ __  
_component is much higher. It’s maths._  
_Also, when did I stop being the Canadian idiot?_

Yuri swore a string of Russian while he typed

_Shut up! And fucking skate!_ _  
_ _And it’s Canadian moron fyi._

He dipped his spoon angrily in his plate of borscht. If there was one thing he could not stand was people bitching about their lacking skills. He got enough of it with Katsudon, he didn’t need the most self-centered arrogant idiot he knew to suddenly start doubting himself.

On the screen Ji got off the ice and walked to the kiss and cry.

 

The flags waved from the stands, the red and white rippling as the announcer called Jean’s name. He skated onto the ice, feeling the audience’s excitement wash over him. There was something in the way they cheered and screamed when he moved towards the middle of the rink. Jean was used to feel the anticipation of his fans during a competition, but this was something else. It resembled the tours he did with the band.

He smiled at them, his grin coming almost naturally. He did his signature pose and then he was moving into the starting position.

The first notes from the piano drifted around him. Jean started to move, gliding in a spread eagle and letting the music fold around him. He had started writing that song during the last Worlds. He had intended it as a proclamation of love for Isabella, but before it had been done, before he ever had had the chance to tell her he was writing her a song, she had broken off their engagement. And it had become a ballad about the passage of time. A sepia photography of days gone by.

He moved through his step sequence, thinking about how much things had changed in the past year. In the past months. He had been in Marseille just two months ago and her absence had still been a gaping void inside him. And then that photo on twitter had appeared, and it had torn on the haphazard stitches of his emotions, draining out the last dredges of hope.

But even as he allowed himself to remember how he had felt whilst composing, Jean felt only a pinprickle of wistfulness carve through him, just in tune with his rotations in the air before he neatly landed his quad Lutz. There was no pain piercing through his sternum, no lingering weight of regrets. There was a calm quiet, a memory of despair, but nothing more.

He entered a flying sit-spin. The world twirled in front of his eyes, and Jean felt strangely at peace. Perhaps it was this place, the quiet of the town and the cool breeze coming from the sea. Or maybe it was the easy companionship between most of his competitors, the way they seemed to support each other. And even him. Perhaps it was the matter-of-factly way Yuri had tried to encourage him. His rage when Jean had merely stated objective facts. The easy banter. Perhaps it was all of that, mashed together, he didn’t know. But the newfound serenity inside him was unmistakeable. And it wrapped around him as he rotated in the air in a quad flip. A triple loop followed a heartbeat later, and Jean landed it neatly.

He had changed the jumps entirely going for the highest base value he could, given the choreography and his stamina. And even if it skirted over the edge of his abilities, it didn’t matter. Jean pushed forward, firm in his desire to try, to move forward. Ever and always. The only obstacles being the ones he placed on his own path  

The notes trickled by and Jean entered a change of foot combination spin that brought his short to its last movements. He stopped in the middle of the rink and all but fell down on his knees. The ice was cold under his lips, but it was his offering. His everything.

Only when he lifted his head did he realise the crowd had gone wild.

 

Yuri gaped at the TV, his food completely forgotten. That idiot. That fucking idiot. He had been complaining about Katsudon being better than him when it came to performance, and then he skated like _this_? What the fuck was wrong with him? Was he stupid? Yuri watched the replays of the jumps and more memorable moves, remembering the precision of movements, the ease with which he had transitioned from a figure to another, from a jump to a spin. And never lost the small wistful smile on his face.

Yuri was used to Leroy skating well, but this, this had been way beyond the usual Jean-Jacques Leroy. The idiot had skated with emotions rippling through every motion. It had been almost like watching Katsudon or Victor skate. And yet entirely different. Because it was Leroy. Even when he laid his soul bare on the ice he never lost his confidence, his larger than life presence.

Yuri shook his head, flabbergasted. He watched the camera shift back to the kiss and cry. The Canadian was sitting between his coaches with a half-grin and a dog plushie under his arm. His hair was plastered on his forehead with sweat and his whole face glistened, slightly flushed from the exertion. He pushed the locks away with a hand and Yuri felt the motion all the way to his lungs as a breath stuttered on its way out. But before he had time to ponder on his reaction the score appeared.

It was a personal best, a decimal away from breaking a record. Leroy was in the lead.

The Canadian’s face lingered on the television for a few more moments before the camera switched to the ice where Katsudon was currently skating towards the middle. Yuri settled back onto his chair, making himself comfortable.

The music started playing. The Japanese moved in rockers swaying in tune with the violins. A moment later he entered a flying spin and executed it effortlessly.

It was a routine Yuri had seen so many times he was sure he could learn it from memory alone. It worked well with Katsudon’s strengths, focusing on a complex step sequence that really only he could pull off. Victor knew what he was doing when it came to choreography, Yuri had to give him that. It was so strange to see how much the Japanese had improved since Sochi. It was sometimes hard to reconcile that mess to the striking skater who was currently entering the second half of his short.

He landed a combination jump, but it was slightly wobbly on the touchdown. Yuri scowled, it would cost him GOE points. Katsudon turned before leaping into a triple Axel. At least this one had good height and Yuri’s scowl eased down. The older skater did an Ina Bauer and then he was off his back outside edge. A quad loop followed by a triple toe. Katsudon was in the element today. Only one more jump remained. The quad flip.

Another wobbly landing. Stupid pig. But he could still get a good enough score. After all, the performance was excellent as always.

Katsudon exited a sit spin and brought his routine to a finish, and Yuri waited with bated breath for the results.

 

Jean was in the lead. By a small margin, but he was still first. He smiled as he made his way to the hotel bar, his Team Canada jacket abandoned for a button down shirt and a jacket from his own line of clothing. It was good for marketing. Or so they told him. He walked through the lobby making a beeline for the bar. Chulanont had told him everyone was going to meet there to hang out. They were not competing the next day and it was a good excuse as any to go out and socialise.

Jean entered the dimly lit bar. There was a mellow music playing in the background, and the low rumble of chatter ebbed and flowed. He looked around for a moment before he spotted the Thai skater. Chulanont was chatting amiably and taking selfies with De La Inglesia and Ji, making silly faces at the camera. Otabek was sitting on a bar stool nearby, looking at them impassibly. He nodded in Jean’s direction when he joined them.

“Altin.” he greeted with a polite grin.

“Leroy! Come take a selfie with us.” Chulanont exclaimed, motioning for him to join them “I’m trying to convince Otabek here, but he’s not internet friendly.”

“I don’t like taking selfies.” was the Kazakh’s reply and Chulanont twisted his tawny face into a mock pout.

“You take selfies with Yuri, though.” he complained and Jean chuckled.

“I don’t think he really has a choice, do you Otabek?” Jean said with a grin, quirking an eyebrow.

Altin’s mouth curved minutely and he gave them a shrug.

“Enough chit chat.” the Thai exclaimed “Let’s get down to business. Instagram won’t fill itself. And those likes are my lifeblood.”

The next half an hour was filled with them posing in the most absurd tableaus. The young Japanese skater, Kenjiro, joined them just as they were pulling faces at the camera, and he had eagerly wanted to be included in the Instagram frenzy. Jean found himself laughing at the skaters antics, Kenjiro and Chulanont becoming a terrifying force together. They even managed to drag there a reluctant Seung-gil Lee, who had been passing by. The sullen Korean had sighed in annoyance. He had not joined the photographing, but had stayed with them nonetheless, sitting next to Altin and sipping his drink in absolute silence.

Katsuki and Nikiforov joined them after a while, only to be subjected to Chulanont’s plan to “break Instagram”. Jean was on his third drink and he felt the pleasant buzz of tipsiness envelop him. Everyone was in a good mood, the music had gotten livelier and Victor and Katsuki started dancing. The only thing missing in this outing was Yuri’s scowl at the couple’s antics. Jean chuckled, fishing out his phone and typing

_Victuuri are being “gross”._ _  
_ _You should be here._

He finished his drink only to order another because someone had proposed a toast. Jean laughed as he sipped his Long Island, listening to a decidedly drunk Katsuki telling embarrassing stories about Chulanont who apparently had been the Japanese’s roommate for several years.

His phone buzzed in his pocket

-YuriP-  
_I get enough of that in Piter._ _  
_ _Victuuri, wtf?_

Jean frowned for a second.

“Hey, Nikiforov, what is Piter?” he asked the Russian skater who was standing nearby, before he could think better of it. Nikiforov looked at him in mild bemusement. But for once he deigned to respond.

“Peter?” he asked with a frown.

“Yuri said _I get enough of this in Piter_.” Jean explained,

“Oh, _Piter!_ ” he exclaimed “That’s how we call Saint Petersburg.”

“Thanks.” Jean said, turning his attention back to his phone. He didn’t miss the puzzled look Nikiforov exchanged with his very drunk fiancé. Jean struggled a bit to compose a reply, and thanked autocorrect with all his heart. His fingers were getting sloppy after the fourth Long Island.

_Victor+Yuuri=Victuuri_ __  
_How did you miss the hashtag?_ __  
_Mel is crazy about this stuff._  
_Izzy and I used to be JJBella._

Yuri replied after a minute or two, Jean wasn’t sure. Time was getting very relative.

He shook his head. Time was always relative, at least his Relativistic Physics module had taught him so. It all depended on the speed you travelled at. And his mind did the strangest accelerations when alcohol was involved. Sometimes everything was fast and other times the seconds seemed to trickle by like aeons.

Jean blinked, amazed at the digressions his mind was pulling. And wondered if he should call it a night. He may be more drunk than he thought.

Suddenly he remembered the phone still in his hand, and he opened the text.

-YuriP-  
_First of all, fuck off._ __  
_Secondly, so you like broke up?_   
_I noticed she’s not around anymore..._

Jean felt his lips pull into a small grimace as he typed his reply

_It’s been 10 months._ _  
_ _She’s got a new bf already._

Was he still bitter? A bit, perhaps. Amid the swaying of the floor under his feet and the soft cotton-like quality of the world around him, Jean could admit that it still stung a little bit. But no, it didn’t hurt. It was like a fading bruise, already yellowing as the tissue healed back.

Yuri leaned his elbows on his knees, frowning at the message. He was unsure what to reply. He guessed an “I’m sorry” would be the polite thing to say. But Yuri wasn’t fucking polite anyway. And he wasn’t really sorry, to be honest. Leroy had actually gotten better this season. Yuri didn’t know if the break-up had been the catalyst or what, but the moron was no longer the first class asshole he used to be.

He leaned back on the stands, listening to the sound of his rinkmates skating. He should answer something. But he he was at loss here. And it irritated him. Huffing in annoyance, Yuri closed the messaging app. He still had a bit of time before he had to get back to practice. He opened Instagram out of habit. And was flooded by images from Phichit’s account. The Thai had added dozens of pictures of the evening out the skaters were having in Korea. There was everyone in them. Even Beka had been caught in a few photos. And many, if not most, featured Leroy winking and doing his moronic pose.

Yuri rolled his eyes at most of them, making sure to comment how stupid the Canadian looked. And then he reached a photo and stopped.

Phichit must have taken in without the Canadian knowing. Leroy was laughing at something, completely oblivious. His eyes shone a bright blue and there were wrinkles at their corners. His periwinkle shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and Yuri could see the beginning of a collarbone peek from under the fabric. His throat went suddenly dry.

He didn’t know how long he stared at the picture, but he tore his eyes off it when his phone suddenly buzzed again. He swallowed, and pressed “like”.

-CanadianMoron-  
_I think I’m drunk._ __  
_Did you know that’s how_  
_I got my first tattoo?_

Yuri snorted, barking out a laugh that tried to banish the flush that he could feel burning his cheeks.

_The tramp-stamp?_ he asked.

The reply came a moment later.

-CanadianMoron- __  
_Yep. Maman freaked out._   
_And it’s not a tramp-stamp fyi_

Yuri rolled his eyes.

_It is a tramp-stamp._ _  
_ _Who’s Maman?_

His phone buzzed after a heartbeat.

-CanadianMoron- _  
_ _Sorry, Maman is french for mom_

_You speak french at home?_ Yuri asked.

It took a bit longer for the next text to arrive.

-CanadianMoron- __  
_Most of the time, yeah._   
_I thought my name was a giveaway XD_

Yuri’s fingers flew over the screen as he typed

_I tend to forget your name is not Moron._ _  
_ _Or JJ. Not that there’s any difference._

A ping.

-CanadianMoron-  
_Everyone likes JJ._  
_I prefer Jean._

Yuri frowned

_So why don’t you give them hell._ _  
_ _I don’t let people call me Yurio_

He opened his contact and edited Leroy’s name. Another ping.

-JeanCandianMoron-  
_It makes them happy._ _  
_ _Even Izzy used to call me JJ_

A scowl curled Yuri’s mouth.

_Your ex sucks,_ he texted him, giving zero fucks about politeness.

Leroy was quick to reply

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_Tbh I never told her._ _  
_ _Besides it’s not a big deal._

His scowl deepened

_It’s your name._ _  
_ _You get a fucking say._

Leroy texted back swiftly.

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_You never call me Jean either._

He looked at the text, feeling something warm pool in his stomach. He couldn’t understand where it came from, but he it flowed down to the tip of his fingers as they raced over the messaging app.

_Fine. Fuck off. I’ll call you Jean._ _  
_ _I need to get back to practice now._

He didn’t wait for a reply, locking his screen and getting down to the ice. He needed to skate.

 

The arena was filled with a cacophony of cheers. The free skate was in full swing and audience grew louder and more excited with each new skater. Jean grinned, feeling their excitement wrap around him and pump adrenaline into his muscles. He looked at Altin who had just left the kiss and cry, and the latter nodded at Jean, passing him by. The Kazakh was currently in the lead and the score he got for his free could very well get him to the podium. It had been a personal best and the dark-haired skater had curved his mouth ever so slightly at the sight of his score. Altin may be quiet, but he was serious competition.

The announcer called the next skater and Jean turned his eyes back to the rink where Chulanont had just stepped onto the ice. The tawny skater smiled brightly and waved at the crowd. He was wearing a turquoise costume that reflected the cheerfulness of Chulanont himself, but at the same time blended well with the wistful undertones of the violins that began playing. He began to move.

Watching the Thai skate was like watching Mélanie. Even as he jumped into a triple flip, Jean could see the sheer enjoyment on Phichit’s face. He was dancing and wanted everyone to relish in it. The way he extended his hands after exiting a flying camel spin seemed to beckon the crowd to join him on the ice.

Jean smiled, watching him nail a combination jump and then another. After getting to know him a bit better in the past days, Jean had learned to appreciate his bubbly personality, his easygoing cheerfulness. Chulanont took off in a Salchow, but he under-rotated it to a triple. His smile didn’t waver. He brushed it all off, skating on and gaining speed before he entered a sit spin. He was not going to make the podium, and he very likely knew it. But all the way through the last notes of his free, Phichit smiled genially, genuinely happy to be on the ice.

He finished with his arms outstretched and the crowd cheered him loudly, throwing flowers and plushies. The Thai skated to his left to pick what looked a like a large hamster plushie, and cradled it to his chest as he got off the ice.

Jean grinned at him a he walked by with his coach to sit in the kiss and cry.

The next to skate was Katsuki, and after him it was Jean’s turn.

 

The sound of Korean filled the lunchroom. The television had been hooked on Mila’s laptop and they were watching a livestream of the Four Continents. Everyone was eager to watch Katsudon skate. The pig had wormed his way into the graces of every skater in the rink. For all that he represented another nation, Yuuri Katsuki was one of their own. Yuri rolled his eyes without much heat. He watched him because the Japanese was good. And because he needed to know what to do to kick his ass at Worlds. It had _nothing_ to do with his personality, or the fact Yuri had begrudgingly gotten used to having him around.

Yuri may admit to himself that he could stand Katsudon’s presence, but he damn sure wasn’t missing him. He was obnoxious and stupid, and made Victor act like a bigger idiot than he usually was. Besides Yuri had a reputation, he couldn’t just start liking the pig. People would think he had gotten soft.

Katsudon finished his free with his signature quad flip and the crowd went crazy. Yuri groaned when Victor all but threw himself at his fiancé. Georgi sighed loudly and Yuri rolled his eyes. He was surrounded by idiots.

The results appeared and predictably Katsudon was in the lead.

“There goes Beka’s gold.” Yuri commented.

Mila sighed.

“At least he’ll make the podium.” she said with a shrug “Everything depends on JJ now.”

He nodded, watching the man in question make his way onto the ice, annoying expression and pose on cue. Yuri rolled his eyes and waited for the show to end. He couldn’t even find it in himself to complain about the stupidity of it all. It was just so much like Leroy. Like _Jean_ , he mentally corrected himself. The idiot wanted to be called by his given name, and while Yuri may find him absolutely irritating he could respect that. After nearly two years of being constantly called Yurio in spite of his more than vocal protests, Yuri was not going to subject anyone to that. Not even the Canadian.

Besides, he wasn’t so terrible, after all. The more time passed, the more Yuri started to feel like he may had misjudged the idiot. He was actually fun to talk to. The hours could fly by while they texted about whatever was on their mind. Yuri talked to Beka very often, but it was never like that. For all that he was happy to talk to his friend, chatting with Jean was something else.

His musings on the Canadian skater where interrupted by the music.

It began softly. Yuri, who had seen Leroy’s free skate twice already, knew what to expect.

And it was not this.

From the first movement on the ice, Yuri could tell something was entirely different this time. Just like in the short two days before, there were emotions in the curve of Jean’s body, a story being told in the rotations of his jumps. Yuri could not take his eyes off the screen. The way he moved, earnest and yet confident. The story that his skates carved on the ice, the splay of his fingers on his torso as he moved through the choreographed sequence. There was much more than the usual technical precision, more than arms being raised during his jumps.  Jean was laying himself bare on the ice, pulling every thread from his chest and weaving them in his motions. It was poetry, and Yuri lost himself in the sight, forgetting about technical elements and grades of execution. He watched with a dry throat as Jean confessed onto the ice, as he skated the truth that lay inside him. No pretences, no personas, just himself.

It was beautiful.

And Yuri’s heart was beating loudly in his throat.

The routine ended and Yuri looked at the television, transfixed, taking in the replays. Watching them break into pieces a performance that had been everything Jean usually wasn’t, and yet Yuri had the undeniable certainty this was the Canadian skater at his most honest.

The camera got back to Jean sitting in the kiss and cry. The blue stripe with his name appeared on the screen Yuri found himself gripping his carton of juice with force, holding his breath. Because they had to give him gold, they had to. Katsudon had been good, but Jean had been something else entirely.

The numbers appeared a second later and Yuri jumped to his feet, yelling

“Yes!”

He had won! By a fucking decimal margin, but the Canadian dickhead had won. Yuri was grinning like a cheshire cat, feeling his heart threaten to burst.

There was a sudden silence in the lunchroom and Yuri looked at Mila who was eyeing him with a frown. Georgi shook his head in disapproval, and Yuri frowned.

“I know you don’t like Yuuri, but this is low even for you.” the redhead told him seriously and Yuri blinked.

“I agree.” Georgi said gravely.

And suddenly Yuri burst into a bout of laughter.

Because, his life was a fucking joke. His teammates thought he was rejoicing because Katsudon had _lost_ , while Yuri was happy that Jean-Jacques fucking Leroy had won the Four Continents. Jean who wanted to be called by his given name. Who was not the asshole Yuri had always pegged him for. And if that wasn’t the most ironic thing ever, Yuri would swallow his skates, blades and all. It was a testament how entirely out of joint his life has gotten since the GPF. Everything was turned upside down. And it was fucking absurd.

His rinkmates were giving him a mixture of worried looks and confusion, that sent Yuri into another, even louder fit of laughter. It was laced with hysteria. Because this was too fucking much. His whole life was an unrecognisable mess of irony and absurdity.

Nothing made sense any more.

“Yuri.” Mila began softly, walking to his table “Are you alright?”

And he laughed harder, suddenly feeling a sob being pulled from the bottom of his chest. This was it, he was definitely losing it. And he couldn’t stop it.

There was a hand being placed on his shoulder and a moment later fingers were kneading through his hair. He laughter mingled with sobs as they wrenched his chest open. He could feel it all, how ridiculous his life has become and how stupidly he still clung to it. The weight of every tiny shard of disappointment, leaden and sharp pierced through his breaths, and he half sobbed half laughed bitterly at his own naivety. Because he had allowed himself to believe in certainties that had only burned bright on his skin, scorching him deeply and leaving nothing but the taste of ashes on his tongue. Yuri could feel his cheeks grow messy and wet, but he could not stop. Because it was all too much.

He didn’t understand what he was doing anymore, clinging to wisps of smoke while he slipped ever deeper in the chaos that was his life. He was alone. And while solitude was his companion it was hard to do everything on his own. But people kept leaving. They kept discarding him. Even his own mother never had the time or interest to stick. Her career had been more important. And who was Yuri to argue. He was a thing made of weakness. A broken doll with moving parts that were barely being held together.

What kind of fucked up life was this when the only silver lining was talking to the skater he used to despise the most. Who had become the brightest spot of his days. Who made his lips curve in the ghost of a smile every time his text alert chimed. Who made Yuri groan in disappointment when it was a text from someone else.

“Yuri?” Mila whispered, her arms still wrapped around him. His sobs had died down and he leaned slightly into her embrace. He wanted to hate her for that, to snarl, but he felt so weary.

A heartbeat later he untangled himself from her arms.

“Can you…” he began, clearing his throat to get some semblance of normalcy to his voice, but it still wavered embarrassingly “Tell Yakov I’m sick. I’m going home.”

The redhead nodded, squeezing his shoulder, and giving him a long look before getting to her feet and walking out of the now empty lunchroom.

Yuri let his head fall down on the table.

He was a mess.

 

The ice reflected the flashes of the camera. And Jean grinned like an idiot. He was standing on the podium with a golden medal around his neck, and part of him was still trying to process everything. He had won, in spite of not skating to win, but merely to give his best, Jean had won, outscoring Katsuki by a fraction of a point.

He bit on the medal, and then there were hugs and congratulations cascading over him. Katsuki gave him an honest smile and a brief hug, the silver medal glinting around his next. And Altin, for all of his standoffish attitude, embraced him with a pat on his back. Jean’s cheeks were starting to ache from all the smiling, but he could not stop himself. It had been a while since he had last stood on the podium and genuinely felt victory, felt the thrum of adrenaline in his body, the giddiness of accomplishing something unexpected.

Ever since Barcelona, Jean had resigned himself to fighting against the inevitable pull of gravity as his results had plummeted through the past season and a half. He may had blazed through the qualifiers, but when it had really mattered, at the GPF in Marseille, Jean had missed the podium.

But now he had won the Four Continents, and suddenly a medal at Worlds seemed once again like an achievable goal.

He stepped off the podium and began weaving his way to the lockers. Everyone wanted a slice of his attention, and Jean indulged them with a genuine smile. There were questions and congratulations, and flirting that flew over his head. He had won the Four Continents. He had kicked Katsuki’s ass, as Yuri had put it. The only thing on his mind was what the blond would say to that.

When he had finally managed to detangle himself from all the well wishers, and trudged into the mostly deserted locker room, Jean took out his phone before even unlacing his skates.

There were dozens of texts and notifications. And one form Yuri.

Jean grinned.

-YuriP-  
_You fucking did it._ _  
_ _I’ll still beat you in Helsinki._

He chuckled giddily, typing back.

_In your dreams, Yuri._ _  
_ _The gold at Worlds is mine this year._

He proceeded to take his skates off, putting his street shoes on. The costume peeled off him, wet with perspiration, and Jean sighed as the soft fabric of his T-shirt wrapped his torso.

He was just pulling on his trousers when his phone chimed.

-YuriP-  
_I wouldn’t bet on it if I were you_

Jean laughed, suddenly inspired

_Why not? XD If I win you hang a_ __  
_poster of mine of your bedroom wall._   
_What do you say?_

The response was quick

-YuriP-  
_Fine. Not like that’s going to happen_ _  
_ _What do I get?_

He stared at the screen, pursing his lips. There were various ideas mulling through his head, but none seemed to be the right one. He finished dressing and put his costume and skates away. There were the usual interviews to be had, and then he needed to rest. He was skating the gala tomorrow afternoon.

Suddenly it struck him. He unlocked his phone and typed.

_I’ll skate one of your routines_ _  
_ _at the gala in Helsinki._

Yuri’s reply was caustic, but Jean grinned nonetheless.

-YuriP-  
_Better start practising then._ _  
_ _You only have a month._

 

The wan winter light streamed through the windows of the studio. Yuri was practicing on the barre, feeling the pleasant stretch of his muscles. His body was relentlessly growing day after day and in the past year Yuri had gotten used to the gruelling practice he needed to retain his flexibility. He had just moved into a different pose when the door opened and Katsudon entered the studio. Yuri looked at the Japanese and then at Lilia who was eyeing the older skater with a stern look.

“You are late.” she told him in heavily accented English and Katsudon stuttered an apology, face flushed in embarrassment.

“You have gotten silver. You need to practice more.” she berated him “You can do better. Your layback is not good. You will make it perfect, _da?”_

Katsudon only nodded, still unused to the ballerina’s harsh attitude. Yuri observed their interaction, feeling a spark of rage flicker under his breastbone. Yuuri was not even her student and yet she cared more about him than Yuri. He gnashed his teeth, focusing on his arabesque. It had been months since the last time the ballerina had scolded him for anything. The best he could get now were short instructions. Sound ones, yes, but with no passion behind them. He could comply or not. She did not care.

And Yakov was the same.

Yuri thought two months would be enough to get used to this, but the only change was that rage had turned to bitterness and it tasted like bile.

Katsudon began working on his stretching and gave him a confused look. Yuri’s scowl grew deeper.

“Yurio…” he began softly but before he could finish the sentence Lilia’s voice whipped loudly

“No talking. Stretch.” she commanded and Yuri almost chuckled at the flush that had risen on the Japanese’s face.

Katsudon was not used to Lilia’s antics and exceptionally high standards. Not that the Japanese was sloppy, but in the nearly two years of knowing him Yuri had come to realise Katsudon needed to be handled carefully. It pissed Yuri off, because the stupid pig was fucking frail.

But wasn’t Yuri too?

After all he had broken down in Marseille and it had been a near thing in Chelyabinsk. And only four days ago, in the lunchroom he had done so in front of everyone. So how was he any different from Katsudon?

Shame burned up his throat, setting his cheeks aflame and he pushed deeper into the position, feeling the burning of tendons as they stretched to their limits. He was a fucking broken thing and Lilia knew it. She was disappointed, that’s what she was. Because the stupid Japanese stretching on the floor nearby had not been her pupil, her hope. He was a broken skater Victor had patched together into something beautiful. But Yuri was something pretty that had shattered before he could even dream of embodying the beauty Lilia had expected him too.

He was a broken toy, nothing more.

And Yuri may be adamant in his desire to skate, but he couldn’t help feeling the disappointment cut deep into his flesh. He couldn’t help hating it.

Hating the weakness that festered under his skin, the way the winter morning was blurring in front of him. And he almost snarled when he realised it was tears threatening to spill. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Lilia was looking at him sternly and he willed them back, pushing down the ugly lump that was forming in his throat. Beka told had told him he had the eyes of a soldier. But he couldn’t grasp that spine of steel, watching in muted horror as his vision cleared and a wet trail slithered down his flushed cheeks. Every muscle in his body was clenched, and his lungs refused to breath. Because she had seen. And Katsudon too. They were looking at him, and Yuri was frozen in place, tears falling down his face. Shame was a living thing, roaring into his ears.

A heartbeat, two. And Yuri was suddenly moving, sprinting out of the studio and running, running, running.

The door of the bathroom stall slammed closed and Yuri fell down on his knees, sobbing his shame, his weakness, the fucking hatred that burned inside him.

They had seen.

They knew.

“Yurio?” Katsudon’t voice suddenly echoed in the empty restroom “Are you okay?”

“Fuck off!” he snarled, cringing at the wetness of his voice “Leave me alone.”

He could hear the shuffling of feet, but the door remained silent. The pig had not left. Yuri ran his fingers through his hair, discarding several locks from his braid. What did he want from him? Wasn’t it enough that he had seen?

“Yuri.” came softly and he lifted his head at the use of his name “I’ll leave you alone if you want. But… but if you ever want to talk about it, well, I’m… I’m good at listening, so.”

He finished awkwardly and Yuri could already picture the downward gaze and the slight flush on the Japanese’s cheeks. He wanted to yell at him to mind his own fucking business. He didn’t need Katsudon’s pity or whatever the fuck he was offering. But there was something earnest about his tone, and Yuri was reminded of an eerily similar scenario two years before in Sochi. The irony tasted of bile and his lips curled into a grimace.

“Whatever.” he told the older skater “Now, go away.”

Katsudon didn’t reply, but a moment later he could hear the sound of the bathroom door softly clicking closed.

And Yuri let his head fall back onto his hands.

 

The door closed softly. And Jean sighed wearily before plopping down on his bed. He was exhausted from a day of heavy practice. He had only gotten back from South Korea a few days before, but the newest addition to his medal case had spurned him to work harder. He had a chance at Worlds now, and he wanted to grab it.

His muscles complained at the added strain, but Jean was fuelled with determination. And not just because of his new medal. After the Four Continents were done and all, Jean had finally found time to watch himself skate. He had spent a good portion of the flight above the Pacific rewatching over and over the videos of his routines from the Four Continents. He could barely recognise himself. But he _could_ recognise the emotions displayed there in the open. The honesty of his performance, stripped of any artifice, any acting. It was like that routine he had skated back in December, after the Russian Nationals. And yet, it was nothing like it. Because that had been only a glimpse of how his routines should truly look. Should feel.

But this. This was something that filled him to the brim with the desire to skate in front of the world, to let them see what he could do.

He smiled, looking at the ceiling. He really had a shot at Worlds now. Maybe even at outscoring Yuri. His lips pulled into a full-toothed grin. He would definitely sign the poster.

But if he didn’t win the bet, he had to skate one of Yuri’s programs at the gala. Which brought him back to the doubt he had been rolling through his thoughts ever since the Four Continents. Jean had watched, and rewatched several times Yuri’s routines, but even the poster on his wall reminded him how superior Yuri’s flexibility was in comparison to his. His skating had a delicacy Jean could not convey. The strength yes, the stubbornness of the motions he could do, but for all that he would try, Jean could not see himself portraying frailty.

He knew he should ask his mother for advice. After all she had choreographed every routine Jean had ever skated. She would find a way to make it feasible for him. Some small alterations, perhaps. Turning a half-Biellmann into a simple layback spin, reducing the difficulty of some figures without butchering the choreography.

Jean sighed. He had to talk to her. But he wanted to choose the routine himself before he approached her. Not to mention that he had to find a way to spin the whole plan without mentioning the bet. His mother would _not_ be pleased.

He fished his phone from his pocket and opened youtube.

 

The light flickered out. Yuri laid down on his bed, staring in the darkness. He leaned onto the pillow. It smelled of detergent and a faint floral scent that clung to all clothes washed at Lilia’s home. It was so distinctive, whenever Yuri smelled it on someone else’s clothes hh would feel slightly disoriented. Because that smell were his clothes, his sheets and towels. Lilia. Although on her it was always mingled with the sharp perfume she always wore. It was almost a signature, a harbinger of her incoming presence.

Yuri pulled the comforter almost over his head. He really didn’t want to think about the prima ballerina under whose roof he still lived. He was so tired, and everything ached. Yuri had been pushing himself harder than usual in the past week. After the scene in the ballet studio, everyone had gotten to tiptoeing around him. Treating him like he was made of glass. And it had pissed him off, over and over. Because he could see the underlying pity, the disgust in the sympathetic looks his rinkmates and coaches gave him.

He was fucking weak and everyone knew it.

So he had pushed himself to the limits of his still growing body, giving every ounce of strength to the ice and the barre. And while it filled him with an array of ever-evolving aches, at least it didn’t make him feel useless. Pathetic.

The room was dark and it was not difficult to close his eyes. He was so tired, sleep was already tugging at his mind, enveloping everything in the quiet of conscience slipping away. Faintly he remembered tomorrow would be his birthday. Not that he celebrated it, or anything. But he would be a year older.

He snuggled deeper under his covers. Maybe Beka would get him something cool as a gift. He smiled sleepily, remembering the tiger-striped phone cover he had gotten last year. It had been customised with “Ice Tiger” written in bold golden letters.

Beka was a good friend.

He thought about their meeting in Barcelona even as his mind began drifting into sleep.

The orange light of the Spanish sunset became brighter in his mind’s eye, mixing with the twirls of colour from flags that waved above the stands and the spotlights on the ice. He was skating, flying through the light, and music burned inside his veins. He picked pace as the pinks and oranges turned to dark reds and choking greys. And his hands refused to raise as he rotated into a spin. His elbows were glued to his sides and he glanced down only to see bright yellow fabric constricting him. It smelled of fabric softener and perfume, and it grew tighter and tighter until Yuri lost his balance and began falling down on the ice.

Down down down. He braced himself for the impact, but the hard surface of the ice never met him, elusive in the distance just an inch away. And he was falling. Curling into a small ball as the darkness grew thicker, the spotlights shutting down one by one, loud like the breaking of a light bulb. And between the cracking of glass were whiplike words and snarls and yells. And he wanted to finally fall down, but where the ice was now only smoke lingered, enveloping him an embrace.

And he choked. He choked, fingers clawing at his throat.

He gasped, sitting up in his bed.

The covers had slid down his torso and he shivered in the cold of the bedroom, sweat quickly cooling on his skin. It took a moment to regain his bearings. And then he noticed his phone was ringing. The loud ringtone echoed in the darkness of his bedroom, the green light of screen almost blinding.

Taking a few deep breaths he reached for his phone on the nightstand, all the while wondering who the fuck was calling him in the middle of the night. His fingers were numb and it took him several trials to grip the phone tightly enough and lift it to his eyes.

Leroy.

He frowned, accepting the call.

“What do you want?” he muttered into the speaker, breaths still laboured.

_“Did I wake you up?”_ came from the receiver _“Sorry about that, but I didn’t think you’d be asleep at midnight.”_

“I have fucking practice in the morning.” Yuri grumbled with annoyance, sliding back down under the covers and closing his eyes “What is it, L… _Jean_?”

_“I wanted to wish you happy birthday.”_ came the cheerful reply.

Yuri opened his eyes.

“You couldn’t have waited until the morning?” he asked, but there was no venom in his voice, and the Canadian must have noticed because there was a huff of laughter from the other side and a

_“Nope. It’s midnight in your time zone. Had to be the first.”_ at which Yuri snorted, the tendrils of his nightmare drifting away.

“You can get gold medal for annoyance, that’s for sure.” he told him with a huff.

_“So, what do you want for your birthday?”_ Jean asked suddenly and Yuri almost bit back that he didn’t want anything from the idiot, but it never got past his teeth.

“I can’t think of anything.” he told him truthfully.

_“I guess I’ll have to improvise”_ Jean told him with a chuckle _“You sound dreadful, should I let you sleep?”_

“You could have tried not to wake me up.” Yuri bit back tartly, even though he was grateful for it.

The Canadian just chuckled again.

_“Sorry about that.”_ he said, sounding anything but apologetic “ _Good night, Yuri.”_

Jean’s voice was quiet and Yuri felt something tighten in his chest at the low rumble.

He swallowed.

“Yeah, whatever.” he grumbled, suddenly embarrassed “Goodnight, Jean.”

 

The sky was clear beyond the window, the stars like sharp pinpricks in the darkness above. Jean let the curtain fall back into place, pacing around the room. The house was so quiet without Mél. His sister had left along with their parents for Taipei, where the Junior Worlds were held, and Jean had remained in Montreal along with Tommy. It was always strange when she was not around. Tommy would grow quiet and Toffee would mope around the house, looking at everyone with her large brown eyes filled with that particular brand of sadness only a dog could convey.

She was lying next to the piano where Jean had been playing before frustration had made him drop the scores on the table with annoyance. He had been trying to work on the music for his new songs. The ones he had scribbled on the margins of his maths textbook weeks before. With the end of the season approaching Jean knew he should start working on the score if he wanted to use any of those for his routines in the upcoming season. And being off the ice for the duration of the Junior Worlds was a perfect opportunity to dedicate himself to composing. Both his parents had left for Taipei and since the World championship was so close they had banned him from practice when they weren’t around. Jean could not risk an injury now.

He sat back down in front of the piano and scratched Toffee behind her ears. The ball of fur snuggled closer, leaning her head in Jean’s lap. He chuckled, petting her a bit more, while he wondered what to do with the music. He had down the bone structure of a melody, but his fingers had kept digressing from the main theme.

With a last scratch to the dog, Jean put his fingers back on the keyboard and began to play. After the fourth time he attempted to work on the half-composed song, Jean sighed and allowed his hands to fly over the keys without restraints.

His left hand worked its way through the bass notes, sharply pressing them, while the melody unfurled out of the staccatos. It twisted tight tighter into a crescendo only to suddenly deflate. His fingers softly touched the keys, while the bass chords fit them. It was something alive under his fingers, coming into a shape even as he improvised it. And his heart picked up pace, almost in tune with the sharp pressing of the bass notes.

He could almost see a story there. A tale of half-formed sentences and late night text messages, of terse barbs, of teasing words stretched to grasp across the miles. Of the blur of green as a lithe body spun on the ice, of the angel blond halo hanging on his wall. Of bets and wagers. There was a tale of ever-connecting bits and pieces, which formed a picture so perfectly incomplete Jean yearned to learn more.

The melody repeated and he felt it cleaner this time, less hesitant in the search of the right note. And clearer in its nature. He knew what he was playing about. He knew what he was composing. And a groggy conversation in spite of time-zones came back to his mind.

He played and played until his fingers grasped the motion out of reflex. And then he took a clean sheet of paper and began to write down the notes.

 

It was still dark outside. The orange light of the streetlamps played through the sheer curtains of Lilia’s kitchen. Yuri dipped his spoon in his bowl of _kasha_ , chewing his breakfast while he willed the grogginess of sleep away. He was used to wake at the crack of dawn, or as it was for the better part of the year, way before the sun rose above the horizon. But for all the lifetime of getting up early, Yuri never liked that first hour after getting out of the warmth of his bed. His usually grumpy mood was even worse and everyone knew to leave him to his own devices.

His phone pinged and Yuri glared at it. Evidently not _everyone_ knew to leave him alone in the morning.

Setting his spoon down, he scrolled over the screen, opening the text.

-JeanCanadianMoron- _  
_ _Give me your e-mail address_

He punched back a

_Why?_

Like it wasn’t bad enough that had awoken him in the middle of the night to wish him happy birthday two weeks ago, but now he texted him at the crack of dawn? Besides, wasn’t it very late in Canada right now...

His musing were interrupted by his phone.

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_I want to send you your birthday gift_

Yuri felt his eyebrows disappear in the line of his hair and he typed

_???_

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_Just give me you address, you’ll see._ _  
_ _I’ve pulled an all-nighter to finish it._

_Fine,_ Yuri typed back, adding his e-mail address.

A moment later he got a notification on his phone. He opened the e-mail.

_Dear Yuri,_ __  
_I hope you like it. I haven’t arranged it yet, so it’s just the piano. But if you like it I’ll do it._ __  
_Happy birthday._   
J

Attached was an .mp3 file. Yuri tapped on it. The music from the phone’s speaker filled the large kitchen, echoing from the high ceiling.

It began with deep notes almost like the banging of knuckles on a door. But as the music picked up it grew into a storm brewing only to break off and show a scorch of clear sky. There was something visceral about the song, something that seemed to resonate deep within Yuri. He could feel goosebumps travel down his arms as the music slowed down, to an almost soft melody, only to gradually grow strong once again, violent and gentle at the same time.

It felt like looking at himself in the mirror.

By the time the song ended Yuri’s heart was beating fast.

Leroy had composed a fucking song about him.

He could feel his breath hitch and refuse to leave his lungs. He pressed play once again and listened it, feeling his pulse grow faster and faster every time he replayed it. A song about him. A song that felt _right_ , that stuck a chord deep inside his marrow, echoing through the whole of him.

Swallowing, Yuri opened the messaging app and looked at the blank space, unsure what to write. _How_ to write it.

In the end he settled for a text saying

_Arrange it._ _  
_ _And make it long enough for a FS._

  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've thrown a little gift for the skating nerds. (see end notes for spoilers)  
> UPDATE 24/02/2017 plotwise nothing changed, but I wasn't happy with it, so I fixed a couple of scenes. <3

_“Yet I am I, who long to be_ _  
_ _Lost as a light is lost in light.”_

_Sara Teasdale, I Am Not Yours_

 

The early morning air in Helsinki was cold. A light wind rustled through the canopy of bare branches and evergreen needles. Yuri pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, strolling down the path. The sun was barely above the horizon and it painted the park in long shadows that every now and then were sliced by the orange glare. A thin layer of ice scrunched under his shoes when he trod over the grass to avoid a jogger. He had ran into a few pink cheeked Finns who were puffing condensation as they jogged through the large park, and he had almost regretted not wearing his running gear, yearning for the cold air filling his lungs while he ran. But for once he needed peace more.

He had a lot on his mind ever since they had boarded the plane in Saint Petersburg the day before. It had been a blissfully short flight to Helsinki, but Yuri had had enough time to ponder the future. His skating had improved since the Europeans, but he was not at the level he had been four months before. And while the tense relationship with his coaches had reached a tentative balance in the past weeks, Yuri still felt suspended in this strange pocket of space between worlds. There was a certainty inside him, bright and smouldering, that after the World Championship was done things would finally come to a head.

And he dreaded it.

He kicked a tuft of grass in frustration. He had left his hotel room to stop his mind from running in circles, and yet here he was, once again mulling over the same old same old.

The sun was slowly climbing above the trees and Yuri fished his sunglasses from his pocket, perching them on his nose. He checked his phone to see the time. He still had more than an hour before Beka would pick him up so they could join Mila and the Crispino girl for a coffee. He didn’t look forward to it, but he had barely spent any time with Otabek ever since they had landed in Helsinki. And he wholeheartedly blamed Mila for that. Apparently the two had started dating or something, so she had monopolised his friend ever since they had come to Finland.

Groaning in frustration at the prospect of spending the morning talking to Sara or, heaven forbid, her creep of a brother who was attached to the hip to his sister, Yuri unlocked his phone. He punched a text.

_Tell me you’re already in fucking Helsinki._ _  
_ _Beka makes me have coffee with Mila and Sara._

Yuri pressed send and put his phone back, tucking his hands back into his pockets. He relished the way his cheeks were slowly growing numb from the cold. It reminded him of the chill of the rink early in the morning, before his teammates would flock in. Yuri had seldom managed to get there before everyone else, but the rare times he had, he had rejoiced at the silence and cold. At the calm solitude on the ice.

A ping broke him from his reverie, and he took his phone out.

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_Good morning to you too._ _  
_ _Hate my company less than Mila’s? XD_

Yuri typed quickly a reply.

_At least you’re not gross._ _  
_ _Or creepy like the Crispinos._

It took the idiot far less time to reply this time.

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_Sara is ok. Usually._   
_I’ll be there, though._   
_Just tell me when & where._

Yuri typed back a moment later.

_10am. This is the place:_

He sent the name of the coffee shop and then he put his phone away. He still had a lot of time on his hands. But the frustration he had been feeling before had seeped away, and Yuri could feel his lips curl into the ghost of a smile.

 

The pale spring sun shone through the windows. Beams of soft light danced on the bed as the curtain fell back in place. Jean stretched his arms above his head, feeling the grogginess of sleep seep away. He was not used to waking up so late. It was strange to see the sun already shining as high as the early spring in Finland allowed. And yet there was something pleasant in the idleness of a morning with neither training, nor studying, nor any other chore. Just relaxing before the official practices began.

They had landed in Helsinki the evening before, checking in the hotel just in time to have dinner. While Jean had gotten to bed early enough, jet lag had messed with his sleeping schedule and he had ended up tossing and turning under the covers until the small hours of the night.

Jean made his way to the bathroom to get ready for the day with a yawn. He turned the shower on and got under the stream of warm water. This was it. Tomorrow the World Championship would begin, with official practices and competitions. And podiums to ascend.

Jean could feel a tingle of anticipation running down his spine.

It had been years since he had been so excited about a championship. It was more than the culmination of a season, and the beginning of a well earned vacation. There was a pleasant knot in the pit of Jean’s stomach that sprung to life whenever he thought of the competition, of the ice that awaited them. Of the skaters he was going to face. Of meeting Yuri for the first time since the GPF.

Jean stepped out of the shower, grabbing one of the fluffy white towels. He felt almost giddy with the energy that coursed through him, now that the grogginess of sleep had been completely washed away. Grinning he finished his morning routine and got dressed.

He googled the coffee shop where he was supposed to meet with Yuri and the rest, while he waited for the elevator. It was not far from the hotel where all the competitors were staying, and Jean memorised the route before stepping out into the brisk Helsinki morning. It was not the first time he visited the Finnish capital, but his familiarity with the city was only superficial.

He zipped up his jacket and pulled his gloves on. Spring had officially began, but in spite of the sunlight weaving through the buildings and onto the cobblestone, it was cold. Jean walked down the large street marvelling at the strange language on the street signs and shops. It was nothing like any of the languages he spoke or at least partially understood.

He smiled, already savouring the exploration of the capital, later that day.

Checking his app, Jean looked to his left where the coffee shop was supposed to be. A couple of feet ahead he spotted the sign, and pushed the glass door open.

He had just peeled his gloves off when he noticed a familiar pair of female skaters sitting at a table and sipping their coffees. Mila spotted him and waved, catching Sara’s attention, who beamed at him. Jean grinned, throwing the girls a playful wink. The barista caught his attention, and several minutes later Jean was balancing a tray of pastries in one hand while the other curled around a warm cup of coffee.

“Ladies.” he greeted the two skaters, setting his breakfast down on their table, and pulling out a chair.

“JJ.” Sara greeted him as he sat down while the Russian just grinned in lieu of a greeting.

“Still brotherless?” he teased the brunette and both girls laughed conspiratorially.

“Mickey is here too. He can’t compete yet, but he insisted to come and support me. Though, I forbade him from following me around.” Sara said with a bright smile, then with a flair she added “Also I said Mila would protect me.”

The redhead snorted, then lowering her voice in what was clearly an imitation of Michele

“We must make sure your virtue remains untouched, my sister.” she said with a sullen expression that crumbled into a loud bout of laughter. Jean chuckled, grinning widely, and he offered the pastries to the girls who readily tucked in.

“Joke all you want, but I wouldn’t want to cross you, Mila.” he told her with a teasing grin “I’ve seen pictures of you bodily lifting Yuri.”

Mila giggled, sipping her coffee.

“I’m not sure I could still do that.” she admitted with humour “He’s grown quite a bit.”

“He’s getting quite handsome, too.” Sara interjected just as Jean had bitten into a pastry, and he found himself suddenly starting to chew it mechanically. There was something familiar clawing in the pit of his stomach while the girls giggled. But he swallowed the bite of pastry and drowned it with a mouthful of coffee.

“Well, our Yuratchka is not nearly as handsome as his Kazakh friend.” Mila continued with a smirk.

She cast a longing look at the street outside.

“Mila is dating Otabek” Sara explained while she sipped her coffee and the other girl blushed.

“Yeah, I know” Jean said “Yuri told me.”

The girls sported matching frowns. Sara opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly Mila was sitting up straighter in her chair, watching out of the window, and they both followed her gaze

A leather-jacket clad man was parking his bike, the set of his shoulders making Otabek easy to recognise. And unmounting the bike from behind him, was Yuri. Jean watched them take off their helmets, Yuri’s long blond hair falling messily around his face, while Otabek looked unfazed.  The two skaters walked towards the entrance and Jean noticed Yuri had grown since the last time he had seen him. He was as tall as Otabek now.

“Otabek! Yura!” Mila called them when they entered the coffee shop, and the Kazakh turned in their direction, while Yuri flashed her a scowl that lasted a fraction of a second. Then his eyes met Jean’s. And for a moment he just stared, green eyes widening imperceptibly.

Suddenly the barista was asking them to order, and Jean looked away, grabbing his latte. His heart was beating fast. Jean gulped down his coffee, barely tasting it, blinking at his own reaction.

What the hell was going on with him? This was just Plisetsky.

Only Yuri wasn’t just Plisetsky, or any of the appellatives that were attached to him. The past three months had shown him an entirely different side of the blond. A side that made him happy to see a text notification on his phone. That made him relish the gruelling work of arranging a song the younger skater would use for his free skate next season.

The shuffling of chairs broke him out of his reverie, and Jean lifted his eyes from his nearly empty cup of coffee. Yuri and Otabek had settled down and Mila wasted no time to start chattering with the Kazakh, her fingers gingerly touching his hand. Her long eyelashes batted more than once and Jean had to hold back a snicker when he caught Yuri’s eyeroll. His lips still curled in mirth and the blond flashed him a half-grin.

“Ready to have your ass kicked?” Yuri asked him with a smirk, biting down into a danish.

“If by that you mean watching the top of your blond head next to me on the podium, I’m more than ready.” Jean replied with a large grin “Though I wonder if you’ll get silver or bronze…”

“Fuck off, Jean.” the blond replied without much heat, flicking his hair away from his face “The gold is mine.”

Jean laughed, leaning back into his chair.

“You can always dream, Yuri.” he said in mock compassion and the blond groaned. They continued their banter in the same fashion, forgetting about the others, until Sara interrupted their bubble with a giggle.

“What do you say Mila, Otabek?” Sara teasingly asked the other two, her violet eyes dancing “Who’s gonna be the world champion, Yuri or JJ?”

Otabek hummed, shrugging, but Mila’s bubblegum pink lips extended in a smug grin.

“I think you’re both forgetting Victor and Yuuri are competing too.” she observed tartly.

Yuri threw her a filthy look.

“Shut up, _baba.”_ he barked, but the redhead only laughed heartily. Yuri was about to continue, most likely with a string of insults, but Jean interrupted him

“What does _baba_ mean?” he asked, curious.

“Old woman.” Otabek replied calmly before Yuri had a chance to, and Mila’s lipgloss covered lips stretched into a shiteating grin.

“Our Yurachka is so small that I look ancient to him.” Mila teased. Yuri’s face darkened. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak Sara commented

“Nah, he’s grown quite a bit.” she said appreciatively, giving the scowling blond a once-over, and Jean’s fingers tightened around the cup of coffee in reflex.

But before he could ponder his reaction Yuri was shrugging.

“Whatever.” Yuri he told the Italian, entirely unfazed “As long as I’m able to do laybacks I don’t care.”

“Our _prima ballerina_.” Mila exclaimed teasingly, her voice taking a strange inflection that elicited a glare from Yuri that looked a bit too heartfelt. His jaw was squared and Jean could almost see the walls rising behind his green eyes.

“I’m better than you, hag.” Yuri bit back.

“Sure, why don’t go and compete in the Ladies Division then?” Mila teased him, entirely oblivious to the change in Yuri “What do you say Sara, does our Yurachka have what it takes?”

“I don’t think you want that kind of competition girls. He’d leave you all in the dust.” Jean commented, cocking an eyebrow “Or have you already forgotten his world records?”

The girls laughed at his remark, while Yuri eyed him strangely. Jean frowned but soon the conversation veered towards safer topics. Yuri’s unreadable gaze, however, did not leave him. He could feel those green eyes on him. And Jean wondered if he had said something wrong. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, and as Yuri kept silent for the remainder of their impromptu meeting, it lingered, mixing with the strange waves of emotion that kept crushing against the inside of his breastbone.

He met his gaze, and just as he wondered if he should apologise, he saw the smallest upturn of Yuri’s lips.

And he beamed.

 

The music echoed in the empty arena. The stands were vacant except for the occasional skater who waited their turn on the ice and their respective coaches. Yuri skated around the border of the rink, gliding in tune with the music the Spanish skater was practising to. It was a latino piece that sounded vaguely familiar and Yuri guessed he had heard it at Euros. He watched the tawny skater move through a step sequence while he and Jean kept doing laps around the rink.

He should have watched the Spaniard more attentively. It was a chance to see what he would be competing against. But Yuri’s eyes kept straying from the dark clad Spanish skater and onto the bright red shirt of the Canadian champion. He watched him do a spread eagle and it bared Jean’s determined expression. His jaw was set and his eyes were focused onto the ice. There was something about the sight that made Yuri unable to tear his eyes away.  

As he glided around the rink, Yuri thought about the day before. About the strange sensation that had pooled in the pit of his stomach when he had seen the Canadian at the coffee shop. It was such a jarring contrast to the last time they had been in each other’s presence than Yuri had been taken aback. Because over the course of the months that had rolled after the Finals, Jean had become somewhat of a permanent fixture in Yuri’s life. His texts, the occasional phone call and his stupid Instagram posts, it had all become a seamless part of his everyday routine.

But now they were both here, and the idiot was more than a virtual presence. He was almost overwhelming in the way he managed to snatch attention to himself. And where once Yuri had been irked by this, now it was just distracting.

His attention was snapped to the present by the change of music. The Canadian’s song began and Jean skated to the middle of the rink, nodding politely at the Spanish skater who began doing laps. The music played, but rather than doing his routine, Jean practiced his elements. He kept everything light. There were no quad Lutzes, only triples, and after going through them Jean focused on his spins. Yuri watched the way he extended his leg in a camel spin and there was something mesmerising about his long limbs, tightly fitted into his workout trousers.

And yet it had nothing on the cornflower blue of Jean’s eyes that nearly made Yuri slip on his layback Ina Bauer when they met his as he exited a spin. He frowned as he tore his eyes away, looking at expanse of ice ahead of him.

The music drifted to a close and Yuri’s song began. He skated to the middle of the ice, trying to shake off the sudden breathlessness he had felt just shy moments before. He didn’t understand. It was just the Canadian moron looking at him. Not really anything special. It shouldn’t have made him flustered. He was used to be watched. Hell, his whole career revolved around being watched.

And yet, as he moved through his routine, Yuri could not shake off that one particular gaze. It felt like a thread hooked on the back of his neck, gently pulling. It distracted him from the ice, and the flexing of his limbs, filling every movement with a strange sense of anticipation.

He didn’t like it.

But through the whole practice, he was unable to escape his own mind, and the pounding of his heart. As he exited his final position, Yuri skated off almost in a daze.

What the fuck was happening to him?

 

The evening rolled in quickly. The darkness settled over Helsinki like a cold shroud, pierced here and there by the orange light of the streetlamps. Jean was slightly tired from the official practices, but it was nothing compared to the gruelling schedule he had subjected himself in the past months. He leaned on the windowsill enjoying a moment of quiet after the evening spent socialising with his fellow skaters and bantering with Yuri. He inhaled the chill air, while the music blared through the apartment, melting into the crucible of chatter and laughter that spoke of a party going well.

One of the Finnish competitors had invited them all to an impromptu shindig in his apartment. They had a day off tomorrow so Chulanont had planned an outing akin to the ones they had had during the Four Continents. But then Chris, who was friends with the Finn, organised the whole thing, and the quiet night out turned into something else entirely. There was more alcohol involved than a mid-competition party should have had and the music was playing loudly enough for people to improvise a dancing area, but it still allowed for conversation.

Turning away from the window, Jean made his way back to the corner where Yuri and Otabek were standing, each sipping their drink. As he walked towards them, he could see Yuri tapping his foot in rhythm with the music. He was loudly complaining about Victor and Katsuki who were stealing the spotlight in the middle of the dancing area and Jean laughed out loudly at the venom laced pettiness. It was just so Yuri.

“Pity you didn’t bring your mixes.” he told Otabek as the music lulled to something too slow for the early hour “I was really curious to hear them.”

The Kazakh shrugged, just as Yuri asked

“Mixes? What mixes?” there was a frown on his face and Otabek made a small grimace.

“I do gigs as a DJ on the off-season.” he said offhandedly.

“What?” Yuri exclaimed, his eyes wide in surprise. “Why didn’t I know this, Beka?”

Otabek grunted something in lieu of a reply, looking slightly flustered. And Jean wondered if he was actually self-conscious about his hobby. But he had talked with Jean about it in Korea without much trouble.

His musings were cut short by Babicheva who waltzed to them, demanding Otabek’s attention. She was competing the day after and from the way she danced and socialised, the redhead had apparently decided to make the most of the evening before she had to get back to the hotel. Altin threw a slightly apologetic look at Yuri before he was dragged to the dance floor where Katsuki had suddenly started break-dancing.

Yuri was looking at his friend, fingers tight around the plastic cup. He took a gulp, eyeing the couple with a strange expression. In spite of the sharp angle of his jaw and the inches he had gained in height, Yuri looked small.

“Are you alright?” Jean asked.

Yuri gulped down his drink, toying with the empty cup

“I think Beka’s gotten bored of our friendship.” Yuri replied, his voice slightly slurring.

Jean cast a look towards the dark-haired skater who was smiling at the redhead in his arms. There was a softness to the chiselled face of the Kazakh that clashed with his usual stoic demeanour.

“He never told me he moonlights as a DJ.” Yuri mumbled with a pout “I mean he fucking told you! And _you_ ’re not his best friend.”

“We were discussing music.” Jean replied apologetically, looking away from the couple and setting his gaze on the scowling blond “It just sort of popped up in the conversation. I don’t think that...”

“He doesn’t even spend any time with me! He’s with Mila all the time.” Yuri interrupted him, his face twisting into something akin to hurt.

“They’ve just started dating, right?” Jean tried to sound reasonable, noticing how the blond was swaying on his feet “It’s normal he wants to spend more time with her. It doesn’t mean he’s no longer your friend.”

Yuri didn’t answer right away, looking at the floor, mumbling something in Russian.

“What was that?” he asked him.

“Nothing. Fuck off.” Yuri bit back, then he bowed his head shaking it with a scowl and muttered “I don’t want him to go away. He’s my only friend.”

“What about me?.” Jean deadpanned and Yuri snorted drunkenly.

“You’re not my friend.” Yuri protested, and Jean would have been offended but there was a small smirk on the Russian’s face.

“Oh, and what am I?” Jean asked, feeling the atmosphere lighten again. It was worth a bruise on his ego.

“You’re the annoying asshole I don’t mind talking to.” Yuri declared, his smirk widening to something close to a grin, and his eyes losing the shade of sadness they were sporting moments earlier.

“Right. Because you’re the highlight of my day.” Jean said with sarcasm “Nothing better than a daily dose of insults from a little princess like you.”

“What did you just call me?!” Yuri spluttered, eyes wide.

“Princess.” he replied, his grin so wide it almost hurt.

Yuri barked something in Russian and pulled his fist back into a punch, aiming for his shoulder. But Jean was faster, and more sober. His fingers curled around Yuri’s wrist. He laughed, at the expression on the blond’s face.

They stood like that for the longest time, Yuri not pulling back his arm and Jean not relenting his light grip on his wrist, even as the peals of laughter subsided and turned into a grin. Jean could feel his heart beating in his ears, but maybe it was the music. Maybe it was the heat.

He looked at the blond in front of him, hair slightly dishevelled and body swaying almost imperceptibly. His cheeks were dusted with pink and his eyes were wide, the pupils almost swallowing the green in the half-darkness of the loft. Yuri’s gaze was locked on his, and Jean had the sudden urge to swallow. He could feel his Adam’s apple bob, while his grin slipped away.

The beat of the music was fading into the background. He didn’t know what he was doing. But he didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to break this moment. He felt suspended mid-spin, the whole world coming to a standstill. Everything reduced to the sharp angles and blond strands of hair that were falling across Yuri’s cheeks.

His lips were slightly parted, and Jean found himself unable to look away. He was aware of how close they were standing, of the sinewy wrist captured in his hand. Of Yuri drunkenly swaying to keep his balance, and yet looking at him.

They stood there, frozen in their impasse. Until Yuri suddenly muttered

“Fuck it”  

He grabbed the front of Jean’s shirt, yanking him forward. And pressed his lips against his.

 

The alarm blared. It was a loud and vicious sound that made Yuri groan into the pillow and cover his ears with his hands. It kept ringing, the annoying tune echoing in the otherwise silent room. Yuri fished blindly with his hand, managing to swipe the screen and turn it off, before burying himself into the covers. His head was pounding terribly. It felt like someone was banging the surface of his skull with a dozen toepicks, leaping off in toe loops and flips only to land harshly back on his head. Over and over and over.

He hated the world. And his mouth tasted like rot. He tried to drift back to sleep but a lifetime of early practices had conditioned him to be awake at the crack of dawn, even with a headache that made him wish to break something. If only he had the strength to.

Yuri felt like shit. And it took a bit of acclimatising to the absolutely dreadful state he was in to figure out why he was feeling like this in the first place. He had a hangover. Right. He had been drinking at the party the night before. He should have anticipated it, he was not used to alcohol after all. Still, it had felt good. He had been so free and had drifted weightlessly through the evening. For once he hadn’t felt like setting the room on fire because people were just too insufferable. In fact he had had quite fun. Yuri remembered spending most of the evening talking to Jean, and laughing at the idiot, who laughed in turn at Yuri’s barbs. It had been like texting, except better. Way better.

He felt his lips curl into the ghost of a smile. Vague impressions from the party drifted back to his mind and they featured a grinning Jean-Jacques Leroy, blue eyes crinkling with mirth. And a laughter that was meant to let Yuri be a part of the joke, rather than being laughed at. Yuri’s heartbeat picked pace and he felt something twist pleasantly in his stomach. He had really had a good time, hangover notwithstanding.

And then suddenly another memory floated through to his consciousness, a drunken discussion on Beka. Yuri admitting to being scared of losing his best friend. He felt his cheeks redden in embarrassment. More images flickered back. And suddenly Yuri shot up in his bed, eyes blown impossibly wide

He had _kissed_ Jean.

Fuck.

Yuri could feel his breaths come out in huffs as his chest heaved.

He had fucking kissed him.

His headache, the faint feeling of sickness in his stomach, it was all forgotten. Because Yuri had fucking kissed Jean. And had no idea what had gotten into him.

Well, the Canadian _was_ very good looking, even Yuri had to admit that. But it was not a valid reason to kiss him. This was Leroy, the annoying moron who was straight as a rod.

And besides it was not like Yuri had any feelings for the idiot. He tolerated him. Maybe even looked forward to their interactions. But he _definitely_ didn’t want to kiss him, no matter how pleasant it may had been for the brief moment it had lasted before Yuri had bolted away, leaving the party early and drunkenly making his way back to the hotel.

He groaned into his pillow, cursing loudly. Why did he have to go and make an ass of himself?

 

The crowd was as noisy as ever. The competition was about to begin, and Jean leaned back into the plastic seat, letting the mixture of sounds wash over him in their comfortable familiarity. There was a pleasure in the chaos of an arena, in the knowledge that hundreds of people were there to watch you. He was not competing today, but he still felt it vicariously, the elation of being about to perform, of showing everyone what skills he possessed. And it made him smile, pushing aside for a moment the roar of confusion that had filled his thoughts since the party, the night before.

He had tried to distract himself that morning by exploring Helsinki. But it had been futile. Jean had ended up walking aimlessly around the city centre, barely noticing anything. All he had been able to focus were the memories from the evening before.

When Yuri had kissed him. And bolted away.

Jean closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling through his nose. He didn’t want to think about it. Not again. Not when he felt like the ice had been swept from under his feet, leaving him suspended mid-air. Because he had been a heartbeat from kissing him back.

In fact Jean might have ended up being the one kissing Yuri in the first place, if the blond hadn’t been quicker. And it was all terribly confusing and at the same time perfectly clear. Because Jean could no longer deny that he found the blond more than appealing to the eye. That having to watch his poster hanging in front of his bed was not bothersome, quite the contrary in fact. That he enjoyed his company more that he enjoyed anyone else’s. That the bile on his tongue when Sara had appraised Yuri, had been jealousy.

He shook his head. The announcer was calling the first skater on the ice and Jean tried to focus on the petite Chinese skater. But it was hard. Yuri still lingered on his mind. Yuri who had slowly become a constant in Jean’s life, something to look forward to.

But now everything was out of joint. The realisation that had been a long time coming, now made everything hang precariously on the edge of the precipice. Because Yuri may had kissed him, but he had been drunk. And had bolted afterwards. Jean had debated the whole morning whether to text, but every time he had opened the app, his fingers had hovered above the screen while the blank expanse of the unwritten message had stared back at him.

He grimaced, pushing the thoughts back,and trying to concentrate on the Chinese skater who had finished her routine. Several minutes later her results were displayed and a blond Croatian skater glided onto the rink. Jean noticed she was wearing skates with gilded blades, and he stifled a chuckle A fan of Nikiforov most likely. Jean threw a glance to the row where Victor and his fiancé were sitting, and he saw the older skater grin.

Midway through the Croatian’s short program Otabek climbed onto the stands, nodding at Jean. He waved at him, and the Kazakh began making his way towards him. A moment later Yuri climbed onto the stands as well. And when he saw Altin sitting next to Jean, the Russian scowled. He followed his friend, but even though Jean’s gaze followed his motions, Yuri ignored him.

Jean swallowed down the bile and dropped his gaze back onto the ice where the golden-bladed skater finished her routine. Jean barely registered the bows and cheers. Or the girls collecting the plushies from the ice, while the displays showed the blonde in the kiss and cry. He was torn between the desire to talk to Yuri and ask him what was wrong, and the entirely opposite urge to stay far away from him. At least until he made some sense in the chaos that lingered in his mind. Epiphany or not, Jean felt entirely out of his depth.

Suddenly the announcer called Babicheva’s name and Jean forced himself to focus. Mila skated to the middle of the rink, her violet dress flapping as she moved. She grinned widely before moving in position. With her chest bent forward and her arms extended in front of her in a catlike pose, the redhead looked positively feral. Her mouth curled into a smirk just as the first beats of the music began. A female voice crooned in French to a melody that made Jean think of those scenes in the Westerns his father liked to watch, the ones where a pianist played in the middle of a saloon while the patrons brawled. Mila worked through steps before she skated backwards and leapt into a triple flip followed neatly by a triple toe. Her hips swayed as she glided coquettishly over the ice.

A triple Lutz and then she was leaping into a flying camel spin. She was good and Jean really hoped this was the time she managed to outdo Sara. But the Italian had a triple Axel, while Babicheva only had a double, and that had robbed the redhead of several medals so far.

She moved into a step sequence, and Jean found himself slightly curling his lips upwards. His sister was going to have to work hard to outdo the Russian, once she joined the Senior division. Mélanie had gotten bronze at Junior Worlds, which was amazing for a first time, but it would take far more to beat skaters like Babicheva.

A change of foot combination spin marked the end of her short program. And Jean found himself on his feet, clapping loudly and cheering the Russian. It had been an awesome performance.

She was usually very good, but this time her performance had a shade of something more to it. He glanced at Otabek who was standing next to him, and noticed there was a light flush on his cheeks. It was almost natural to throw a glance at Yuri, expecting him to roll his eyes. But as his gaze met the Russian’s for the briefest moments before Yuri averted his eyes with a scowl, Jean felt the weight of the past day slam hard into his chest.

He dropped his gaze back to the ice, watching the next skater move around the rink, while the crowd cheered for her.

 

The second group was about to start their short program. Yuri pushed the thick curtains aside, stepping behind the barrier. He breathed out, trying to clear his head of all the clutter of thoughts that had not left him alone the past two days. The party, the ladies’ short program and the way Jean had looked at him with an expression that had looked too much like disappointment. It had all rolled back and forth through his mind, leaving him confused and tethering on the edge of panic.

Yuri fucking hated it. He couldn’t stand the sight of his hands shaking and the way his lungs squeezed. He hated this whole situation. But he had created it. He had gone and gotten himself shitfaced, kissing Jean and running away. And now everything was wrong.

He hated it, he truly fucking hated it. The Canadian moron had become a part of his life. One Yuri looked forward to. And he didn’t want to go back to the way things were before the GPF. Yuri glanced at Jean with a scowl. The Canadian was taking his skate-guards off and handing them to his coach, and Yuri expected to be met with the usual stupid cockiness of the moron. But instead there was the smallest slump of his broad shoulders that betrayed insecurity. Yuri frowned, feeling a knot in his gut. Jean was supposed to be over-confident to the point of becoming insufferable. What the fuck?

The moron stepped onto the ice, heaving a sigh. It was fundamentally wrong. And Yuri could not stand it. The irritation burnt through Yuri’s embarrassment and shame. It didn’t matter what he had done at the party or how things were entirely fucked up. The idiot was not supposed to look like this. Period.

Scowling at the skater who had just started to move away from the entrance, Yuri shouted

“Hey, idiot!” and the Canadian stopped, turning on the spot with a frown. Yuri yelled “ _Davai!_ ”

The sullen expression suddenly fell off Jean’s face, and a grin blossomed on his lips. Yuri’s stomach fluttered. Their eyes locked for a moment and then Jean was off, skating to the middle of the rink. An “It’s JJ Style” shout later, which made Yuri roll his eyes on cue, the music started, and Jean was off. The piano played in the background as Jean moved in a spread eagle before starting his step sequence.  

Yuri had thought Jean’s performance at the Four Continents had been exceptional, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

Jean was pouring his heart on the ice, baring his soul for the whole world to see. And Yuri could read in every single move the story it depicted. He could see the emotions painted in the way he spun. It was an ode to the passage of time, but more, more.

It was like a meticulously written story leading to something unknown.

He landed a quad Lutz perfectly, but more than the technical accuracy, Yuri was captivated by the earnest look on the other skater’s face. It made Yuri think of late night phone calls to wish him a happy birthday, of the idiot composing a song for him. Of being the fucking ray of sunshine in Yuri’s life. Of how good it had been to kiss him, even if he hated himself. Of the brightness of Jean’s eyes when he teased him.

A combination spin brought the short program to an end, and Yuri was supposed to get ready for his performance. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t. Because the chaos that had lingered in his mind for the past two days had decided to gain a shape and squeeze his lungs against his ribcage.

Fuck.

Jean stepped off the ice and Yuri looked at him, feeling lost in the throes of a storm that he could not understand, for all that he _knew_ what it was.

Lilia’s bony fingers settled on Yuri’s shoulder and he didn’t even register them, but then his name was being called. And, had he missed seeing Jean’s score? But how?

He took his guards off and skated in the middle of the ice. The crowd cheered, but for him it was white noise that muffled into silence as his heart beat fast.

Because he knew what this squeeze under his ribcage meant. It was fucking familiar. And hell, why did it have to be the straight idiot who annoyed the living  hell out of him? And why, did he had to have this epiphany in the middle of the rink just as the first notes of the music began playing?

His body moved on autopilot, but even as he gained speed to enter a flying layback spin, Yuri could feel the overwhelming load of his emotions seep through the cracks of his consciousness and wrap around his tendons, pulling his limbs like puppet strings. He transitioned into a Biellmann and the nearly painful flexing of his body mirrored the sharpness of disappointment. Because why the fuck did it always have to be someone unattainable? And just as he had begun tolerating the moron.

Or maybe not. Maybe he hadn’t just began tolerating him. Maybe it was all mingled together. Maybe the way he saw Jean now had everything to do with the smouldering ache under his sternum, with the longing for something he couldn’t have.

He landed his triple loop, barely noticing his body leaping into a combination jump.

The rink barrier bit into his elbows, but Jean did not move. He watched Yuri exit his jump and move through the step sequence. There was something almost visceral in the way his body twisted. The piano played its mournful notes, but laced with them was the desire of hope. The yearning for it. He leapt in his signature quad, landing the Salchow flawlessly.

As he gazed at his lithe body spinning in a camel spin, Jean could feel the strange confusion he had been feeling for the past two days coalesce and push at the back of his breastbone. Striving for freedom. Yuri skated moving into an Axel when Jean saw his expression. There was nothing but raw emotion there. An openness that mimicked Jean’s own during his routine. And suddenly he understood.

Yuri exited his combination spin, outstretching his hand heavenwards. There were cheers and tears, but Jean registered nothing but the pale face of the blond who skated off the ice, devoid of all emotion, save tiredness. Their eyes met for a briefest heartbeat. And then Yuri was being dragged to the kiss and cry by his ecstatic coaches.

 

Yuri walked to the locker rooms in a daze. He felt entirely spent, and there was a numbness creeping up his skin. He had barely registered the record shattering score of his short program, or the irritatingly happy expressions of his coaches. It was all quite meaningless when Yuri had hollowed his heart out, spilling it on the ice in front of the whole world.

He pushed the door open and stepped in. He did not notice the other skater until he found a hand closing lightly on his arm. Yuri whipped his head to his right, a curse on the tip of his tongue. His eyes met Jean’s.

The Canadian was standing there, still in his skates, with beads of sweat clinging from his black hair. His eyes were filled with a strange determination. Jean opened his mouth, only to snap it shut a moment later. He looked like he was debating with himself. And Yuri found himself dreading the conversation they were no doubt about to have.

Jean was going to ask about the party. He was going to make it all awkward. And the thought of things changing, of the Canadian no longer being a part of Yuri’s life, was wrong, so fucking wrong. Yuri felt himself grow angry.

“Spit it out, Leroy.” he snarled coldly.

Several expressions crossed Jean’s face, until he settled on squaring his jaw.

“Did you mean it?” he asked, blue eyes boring into Yuri’s “The other day, at the party. Did you mean it when you kissed me?”

“Yes.” he spat, clenching his fists and summoning all of his anger, a feeble armour, but the only one he had.

Because this was the point when the idiot would look at him in disgust. Or mock him. And Yuri had to be ready, his tongue sharpened enough to draw blood. Jean looked at him with an unreadable expression.

“You shouldn’t have ran away.” he told him, and his voice was lower now. Yuri felt a shiver trail down his spine.

“Why?” he croaked testily. His throat had gotten suddenly dry, but Yuri was not going to show that. To show the idiot how much he affected him. Not when he was making absolutely no sense.

He swallowed as Jean stepped forward. His eyes were locked on Yuri’s, and there was certainty in them, and hesitation, all burning up in a bright blue flame that circled the darkness of his large pupils.

“Because I wanted to do this.” he told him, lifting a hand to his cheek. And leaning forward until his lips were pressed against Yuri’s.

Yuri gasped, gripping Jean’s shoulder and kissing him back, with more force. He poured every doubt, every inch of shame he had felt, every missed regret, everything into it. And Jean responded in the same fashion. It was a desperate kiss, that mirrored the turmoil which had brewed in Yuri’s chest ever since the party.

There was no room for thinking, for rolling in the riptide of surprise. Yuri had been kissed before, but never like this. There was no beginning and no end, only the warmth of Jean around him and the sudden coldness of the wall that seeped into his back as the skater pressed him against it, leaning impossibly close. And pulling him deeper into the kiss.

He felt his knees grow weak. He was just about to adjust himself when he heard the sound of voices drifting close.

Jean must had heard them too, because a moment later they were breaking apart. Just as the door opened, and the Spanish skater who was in their group walked in. Struggling to catch his breath. Yuri cast a look at Jean who had sat down on the bench, completely engrossed in the task of unlacing his skates. His head was bowed down, but Yuri could see the flush on his cheeks.

He looked away, pretending to be busy with his gloves while he tried to ignore the fluttering in his chest.

It was all surreal. Too surreal to be possibly true. But he took it in stride, walking to his locker and opening it to retrieve his belongings. The sound of the metal door closing resounded loudly in the completely silent room. Yuri dropped down on the bench and began unlacing his skates. He could see the Spaniard with the corner of his eyes, and the skater looked uncomfortable in the strained silence of the locker room. Yuri was too dazed to give a fuck.

Because Jean had kissed him, and that was a turn of events Yuri had not contemplated. It sat comfortably in the realm of the impossible as far as he was concerned.

Except it no longer did. And Yuri had no idea how to act.

The Spanish skater made a quick work of getting out of his skates and costume, and into his street clothes. Yuri had just slipped on his shoes, when the Spaniard walked out of the room with a mumbled goodbye. The moment the door shut closed, Jean turned on the bench to face him.

“We have a day off tomorrow.” he told Yuri, and there was an undercurrent of hesitation in Jean’s voice, but he pressed on “Do you have any plans?”

Yuri blinked.

“Are you asking me out?” he inquired with a disbelieving frown.

And the Canadian huffed a laugh, grinning with a hopeful look in his eyes

“I am.” he told him, and then his mouth curled into a smirk “I’m asking you out, princess.”

“Fuck you.” Yuri spat, narrowing his eyes, then he added “Fine.”

“Fine?” the idiot asked, grin impossibly wide.

“Yes, you moron, I said fine. I’ll go on a fucking date with you.” he snarled, rolling his eyes. There was a flush running up his neck and he forced his face into an irritated scowl. He couldn’t let the moron get too cocky.

“Now get the fuck out. I need to get dressed and go talk with those stupid journalists” he barked and Jean laughed, flashing him the largest smile he had ever seen on the idiot’s face.

And Yuri felt his stomach flutter.

 

The lobby was buzzing with people. There were skaters and coaches coming and going, the occasional journalist trying to catch them only to be shooed by the hotel personnel. Jean sat on one of the armchairs, nervously tapping his foot while he tried to distract himself with his phone. He was a bundle of nerves.  After years of competing he should have gotten used to it, but this wasn’t wasn’t the apprehension before a skate, or the tingle of fear before an exam. It was the brand of nervousness Jean hadn’t felt in years, since the bygone days of school when he had asked Izzy out for the first time.

He exhaled, trying to stop himself from fidgeting. It was going to be alright.

He could do this.

The minutes dragged like hours. He checked most of his social media, without really paying much attention to anything. The elevator pinged once again and Jean cast a perfunctory look as the doors opened. Yuri stepped out, mouth set in his usual scowl, and Jean’s heart leapt. Like always, Yuri was wearing his Team Russia jacket, but his hair had been pulled into a ponytail rather than the messy braid he usually put it in. There was a shade of hesitation in the way he moved as he approached Jean, and a light blush on his pale cheeks that pushed away Jean’s worries.

He beamed at the blond, getting up from the armchair.

Yuri rolled his eyes but his lips were pulled minutely.

“Ready to go?” he asked and received a nod in response

It was so strange, and yet so normal. For hours they wandered around Helsinki, exploring the Finnish capital and getting hopelessly lost in the maze of strangely named streets. They could have quickly found their way back with their phones, but they both stubbornly tried to make sense of the their surroundings. And Jean didn’t mind it. They walked up and down streets and squares, seeing landmarks as well as entirely forgettable corners of the city. And all the while they never ceased their banter.

He found himself more than once grinning like an idiot to Yuri’s vitriolic replies. Because beyond the scowl, the blond’s eyes were dancing in mirth.

They spent the whole afternoon talking and snapping pictures of the city. The few selfies they took were precious. Jean posing in his customary style while Yuri scowled like an angry kitten. Surprisingly enough it was Yuri who insisted on uploading them.

“I don’t give a fuck. I like these pictures.” he said with with a scowl, leaning back on the bench they were sitting on “Just don’t write something gross in the caption.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”Jean replied with a grin, opening Instagram.

“Good.” the blond said and sipped his coffee.

The hours passed and the early spring sun descended beyond the horizon. The darkness crept in on the heels of twilight. They were walking through a park when Yuri’s fingers brushed against his. Jean moved his hand until it was palm to palm with Yuri. He held his breath, but the other skater was not pulling back. Slowly he interlaced their fingers, lightly squeezing Yuri’s hand. Only to feel him return the pressure.

Jean felt his heart threaten to burst out of his chest. He glanced at the blond, who was staring ahead, cheeks dusted with pink.

He stopped walking, tugging gingerly at the hand clasped in his own, and Yuri turned, stepping closer.

“May I kiss you?” he asked, suddenly unsure. The day before he had acted on impulse, but now it was different. There was no lingering adrenaline from the competition. Just the fast pace of his heart beating loudly.

“Why the fuck are you even asking?” came the slightly breathless reply, he felt the rumble of his voice through the layers of clothes that separated them “You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot?” Jean asked, his voice betraying to much, but Yuri just rolled his eyes, with a heavy sigh

“Yes, my idiot.” he replied with annoyance, but his eyes sparkled with a nameless something.

Yuri quickly pulled back his customary scowl, grumbling

“Now, weren’t you about to kiss me or something?”

And Jean grinned, lowering his head.

“I was.” he said, and captured Yuri’s lips into a kiss.

 

Saturday morning dawned with the weight of reality slamming into Yuri’s chest like a sledgehammer. The day before had passed in a blur, for all that time had seemed to stretch itself as he had wandered through Helsinki hand in hand with Jean-Jacques fucking Leroy. Yuri had gone through Friday feeling blissfully detached from the world around him. But as he stared at the ceiling above him, he felt reality reclaiming his attention.

He had a World Championship to compete in. And even though he had barely registered it, he had ended up in first place after the short program, followed by Victor and Jean.

Jean who had kissed him, and asked him out. Who had intertwined his fingers with Yuri, and he could feel his heart pick up pace as the memory of the past days flooded back, pushing the championship once again into the background. It was hard to think about crushing his competition when he could still feel the softness of Jean’s lips over his own, the light scrape of teeth on his neck, the feeling of his long fingers tangling in Yuri’s hair.

He swallowed.

Suddenly a ping from his phone broke him out his reverie.

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_Good morning princess._   
_Ready to have your ass kicked?_   
_Also, yesterday was nice. <3_

Yuri snorted, unable to stop his scowl from turning into a wry smile.

_Fuck off._   
_You better do justice to my routine at the gala._ _  
_ And yeah, it was good.

There were dozens of notifications on his phone, but he ignored them, getting up from the bed to go through his morning routine. When he got out of the bathroom, he noticed the idiot had replied.

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_Pity you won’t see it. I learned it so well._   
_Have you picked the poster yet?_   
_I can help you with that. XD_   
_Just good?_

Yuri rolled his eyes, punching in a reply.

_I didn’t feel the urge to kill you._   
_That’s pretty high on the scale of good._   
_It’s just strange. This._

The reply came in almost immediately.

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_Good strange or bad strange?_

Yuri stared at the screen for a moment, thinking about the past four days, and his heart picked pace, while his stomach fluttered. He couldn’t yet wrap his mind around it all, but one thing stood firmly amid the swirls of confusion. He had no regrets.

He typed back

_Good strange. And before you ask more stupid questions_   
_No, I don’t regret it, idiot._   
_I’ll see you at the rink._

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_Your idiot._

Yuri rolled his eyes, groaning as he typed back.

_If you start being gross you go back to just idiot._

His phone pinged.

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_As you wish, my princess. XD_

He typed a quick

_Fuck off._

and locked his phone as he finished getting dressed. In a few hours he would compete in the last event of the season. And he wasn’t sure he was ready.

 

Jean tapped his fingers on his thigh, watching Katsuki skate his free with his usual flawless grace. He had not registered outscoring the Japanese the day before until he saw his name as the third-to-last skater to perform, and then the reality of it hit him full force. He had managed to score more than Katsuki, which meant he had a shot for the podium. He was going to fight tooth and nail for the gold, but even a bronze would feel like an achievement when competing against the Grand Prix medalists.

The Japanese finished his routine and Jean got ready to step on the ice. He walked to the entrance, removing the guards from his skates. His mother squeezed his shoulder and he flashed her a smile. When the announcer called his name, he skated onto the ice, grinning at the audience. A shout of “ _Davai!_ ” made him look at the stands where the competitors sat, and yes, that was Yuri on his feet. Jean’s heart skipped a beat. He winked at the blond, and could not see the eyeroll from that distance, but he was sure of it.

Feeling lighter, Jean got in position.

The first notes trickled and suddenly he was moving. He glided diagonally across the ice, gaining speed. The piano played softly and Jean smiled wistfully at the memory of composing it. It had been in the deepest throes of heartbreak, after Izzy had left him. In the long hours spent composing Jean had poured his heart into the notes, sparing nothing, and the song had always made sadness flicker in his chest when he allowed himself to feel it. But as he glided across the ice, for the first time Jean felt the joy he had woven in it, sliding it side by side with the sadness of heartbreak. Because in the end it had never been a song about Isabella. It was a song about love.

He spun out of a camel spin and glided on the ice, readying himself to enter an Axel jump. As the soft notes kept playing, Jean found himself thinking about the past day, about the grey cobblestone on the streets, and the bright blue of Yuri’s jacket. About the roughness of his palm against him, the spiderweb of callouses and light scars that were not much different from his own.

He worked through his jumps, barely feeling them. It was impossible to separate his motions from the memories, and he didn’t even try. The music flowed through him, the current rippling along with the images of the past days and past months. With the breathless hope that filled his chest to the point of becoming overwhelming. He may not have yet wrapped his mind around it, but his heart had no doubt as it beat strongly against the inside of his chest.  Adrenaline mixed with the endless possibilities, with the fluttering in his stomach and the knowledge that up there on the stands, Yuri was watching him.

He exited his sit spin and brought his performance to an end. He lifted his eyes and saw Yuri on his feet, shouting and cheering.

Jean grinned.

He dropped to his knees and kissed the ice.

 

The roar of the crowd was loud. Incredibly so. Victor was sitting in the kiss and cry, staring at the score with the same flabbergasted expression Yuri was wearing. The silver-haired Russian was in second place. 1.23 points behind Jean. Yuri gaped, not quite able to wrap his mind around it. Yes, Jean had skated spectacularly, he had to give him that, but Victor had always managed to outscore everyone. It was a given that Yuri had been fighting with all his might to destroy. Except Jean had managed to do so before him.

A mixture of irritation and pride swelled in his chest. Jean was in leading position. And only Yuri was left to skate. On cue the announcer called his name and Yakov and Lilia nudged him towards the ice. He took off his guards in a daze and skated to the middle of the ice. He exhaled as he got in position.

Jean had outscored Victor.

But he was sure as hell not letting the idiot get gold.

The music started and Yuri began to move. He followed the music, letting his body go through the well rehearsed motions. He tried to focus on his stance and figures, but his mind kept drifting away to Jean’s free skate. To the way he had moved, evoking memories of the day before, of the utter surreality of it all. And how incredibly good it had been for all that it seemed impossible.

Jean leaned his elbows on his knees, watching Yuri glide across the ice after he nailed a combination jump. He was mesmerising in his movements. There was an earnest sincerity in every step and turn that left Jean breathless. Because Yuri was skating what Jean had felt during his own free skate, and seeing it mirrored so starkly in the rotations of an Axel jump or the back crossover that led into the next jump, made his chest swell with nameless emotions that all led to the same set of green eyes and flushed cheeks.

The crowd roared as Yuri nailed a quad flip with a flair.

Jean was currently in first place, but he hoped Yuri would win. Because while he had skated well, better than ever, or so his parents had told him with proud smiles, Yuri’s performance was something else entirely.

It was beautiful.

It was music and emotion coming alive

Yuri landed his last jump and slowly glided into his final position. The music stopped and a hush fell on the arena. Yuri dropped down on his knees, heaving breaths.

And then the crowd exploded in cheers.

 

It was like Barcelona. Yuri stood in the middle of the podium, dazedly looking at the flashes of the cameras, not quite believing he had actually made it. He had won gold. And had shattered two records on the way there. Victor stood to his left, a bronze medal around his neck that looked so strange on him. And on the other side of the podium, Jean was grinning. He may had gotten silver, but Yuri had no doubt the idiot was happy to have outscored Victor.

The medal ceremony dragged endlessly, between hugs and flowers and congratulations. It wasn’t until Yuri finally got out of his skates that he realised he had made it. He had beaten Victor, he had gotten his first gold at Worlds, and hell he had even won the bet against Jean.

He looked at the dark-haired skater who was zipping up his Team Canada jacket, and his emotions must have been written on his face because the Canadian grinned. They were alone in the locker room, Victor having lingered behind to talk to a bunch of reporters who were too impatient to wait for the press conference.

“I guess you’ll see me skate your routine after all.” Jean said, pushing a lock of hair behind Yuri’s ear. He could feel the callouses on his palms graze against the flushed skin of his cheek.

“Which one?” he asked, voice slightly hoarse, while he drew himself to full height, standing chest to chest with Jean.

“Nah ah. You’ll have to wait and see..” the idiot replied cheekily.

Yuri scowled, but it was halfhearted at best. He could feel his heartbeat reverberate through his own body, and suddenly it didn’t matter. Yuri moved a hand to the back of Jean’s head pulling it lower. And captured his lips in a kiss.

It was all completely surreal, but Yuri didn’t care.

He had won.

And Jean was kissing him back.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever heard of Idora Hegel? Two words: golden blades! [[link]](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Idora_Hegel)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Happy birthday to our one and only Yuri Plisetsky!!!_

_“(and live by love_ _  
_ _though the stars walk backward)”_

_E.E. Cummings, dive for dreams_

 

The light reflected off the metal. Glints of silver appeared only to vanish as it moved. Jean dropped the ribbon, catching the medal in his left hand. He leaned back until he was sprawled across the bed, watching the shadows on the ceiling. The faint sound of voices drifted from the hallway, and if he closed his eyes he could hear the traffic rumble down below. He exhaled tiredly. The adrenaline of competing had long withdrawn from his body and he could feel the ache in every single sinew. And yet he could not stop his heart from beating fast in his ribcage.

He had gotten silver.

He had scored more than Victor Nikiforov and won a silver medal. Jean grinned with his eyes still closed. It was nothing short of incredible. Seeing the placements on the screen had felt better than getting any of the golds that hung in his medal case back at home. He had wanted to beat Nikiforov ever since the GPF in Sochi. The silver-haired Russian was an excellent skater, a living legend indeed, but Jean had wanted to prove it to himself that he could become better than him, impossible as it sounded.

And now he had proven himself right.

Both him and Yuri had.

Jean smiled when he remembered the expression on the blond’s face in the kiss and cry. The way his mouth had parted slightly and his eyes had widened incredulously. His coaches had hugged him and kissed his cheeks in elation, but Yuri had just stared at the score, dazed.

Yuri had earned that gold. He had proven that was a better skater than Jean.

For now.

It was going to be a gruelling off-season, but Jean had every intention of outscoring him in the next season. Grinning, he opened his eyes and fished his phone out.

 _I can’t wait for the next season to begin._ _  
_ _It will be fun beating you. <3 _

He let the phone slide to the bedcover, and closed his eyes, waiting for a reply. Images of Yuri danced back and forth, while the flutter in his stomach settled in, making Jean smile in the darkness behind his lids. He still couldn’t believe it had all happened. The kiss, the date, everything. It had all been so abrupt, so unexpected.

His phone pinged and Jean broke out of his reverie. He unlocked the screen and read Yuri’s reply.

-YuriP-  
_You’re delusional._ __  
_Also, you should be asleep, idiot._ __  
_You’re not fucking up MY routine by being_  
_too tired to skate tomorrow!_

He chuckled. Yuri was right of course, he had to get some rest before the exhibition skate. It may be only a gala, but the routine he would be skating was a difficult one. After all, Yuri _had_ won gold with it. Jean sighed, starting to type a message. He was about to tell Yuri that he had a point, but he stopped himself mid-sentence. He would never hear the end of it if he told him he was right on something. He lowered his phone, smiling wryly. Jean may enjoy kissing the blond, but he still retained some survival instincts.

His smile turned into a grin, and slowly he got up from the bed, nearly groaning as his muscles protested. He walked into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

It was true that he couldn’t wait for the next season to begin, but he was also glad to get some rest. He had pushed himself beyond his limits this season. He felt spread too thin, muscles and joints exploited to the very bottom of their resources.

But it had paid off. And that was the only thing that mattered. Still, Jean knew he needed some time off to recharge his batteries. He had so many other things that also needed his attention, exams, the band, his charity work. He smiled, looking forward to the brief window of time he managed to squeeze out each year to do the things he loved.

When he walked out of the en suite he grabbed his phone and typed

_Goodnight princess. ;)_

He pressed send and slid under the covers, savoring the feeling of the cool cotton sheets on his tired limbs. Just one more day and he could finally get a proper rest.

One more day.

 _One_ more day.

Jean’s eyes were suddenly open wide.

This was it. The season was done. Which meant they would leave Helsinki on Monday. The bubble of bliss he had been suspended ever since the short program burst. And his chest tightened. Jean squeezed his eyes shut. He would not see Yuri until the qualifiers began. Perhaps even later.

In the past days he had been so lost between the revelation of emotions he hadn’t known he had been harbouring, and finding out they were requited, at least to an extent, that Jean had not thought about what the end of the season meant.

Fuck.

Suddenly his phone chimed and he forced his eyes to open, swallowing dryly.

-YuriP-  
_Fuck off._ _  
_ _Goodnight idiot._

He clutched the phone tightly, trying to stem the widening emptiness that burst in the middle of his chest. They had only one day before they had to say their goodbyes. And he didn’t want to. He didn’t want it to be barely more than a daydream, not when it had stewed for so long on the margins of his emotions, building itself with each and every barbed text message, with each veiled or blatant insult. With the sight of those green eyes widening because of him. Or the flush that coloured Yuri’s pale cheeks a bright pink. It had not been a spur of the moment decision for Jean. For all that it was a fledgeling emotion timidly beating under his breastbone, it mattered.

Yuri mattered.

He was not going to let it all vanish.

Squaring his jaw he flopped on the side and pushed his covers over his shoulder. He needed to sleep, because tomorrow he would skate Yuri’s routine. And he was going to make it memorable.

If all they had was one day, Jean was going to make it one to remember.

 

The lights were dimmed. The ice was awash in blue, as the spotlights softly reflected off the scratched surface. Yuri watched from behind the barrier as Jean skated leisurely across the rink. He was wearing the costume he usually wore for his exhibition gala. But under the spotlights the silver fabric looked almost azure. He glided slowly coming to a stop in the middle of the ice. Jean lowered his arms after he had given the public his trademark sign.

He stood still for a moment, his eyes closed. He looked so peaceful. And the expression was nearly impossible to reconcile with the wide grins and teasing winks that made the idiot who he was. But at the same time, Yuri was could tell it was not an act. The way his head was slightly bent had something natural about it.

Yuri forgot to scowl for a moment, taking in the view of the motionless skater. It was only a matter of seconds before the music began, but it felt like a lifetime. Waiting to find out which routine he would skate.

During the official practices they had played Jean’s usual exhibition piece. And the audience had gasped in surprise when the announcer had informed them a sudden change of music had occurred.

Suddenly the silence of the arena was broken by the first notes of the song.

And Yuri nearly gasped.

It took him no time to recognise it.

_Agape._

Jean lifted an arm only to lower it as the singer’s voice began to sing. There was a softness to his motions that was at odds with his usual routines, but at the same time it was not strange to see him skate like that. For all that Jean was neither delicate, nor lithe, he managed to flow along with the music. He took off in a triple Axel and landed it perfectly.

Months ago he would have never thought it possible for the Canadian idiot to skate anything other than his own arrogance. That he could understand what agape meant. And yet he did, exiting a flying sit-spin effortlessly. His movements may be harsher than Yuri’s or Victor’s but they did not clash with the theme. They seemed to expand it, showing a different facet of unconditional love.

It was a story of devotion and selflessness.

Pride mixed with irritation. Because Yuri could not forget how long he had struggled to _feel_ this stupid routine. How he had ended up faking it. Skating with a blank mind.

And Jean, self-centred moron that he was, skated it like the most natural thing in the world.

It was frustrating.

It was beautiful.

Bit by bit the routine came to an end. Yuri could almost touch the surprise and confusion of everyone present which erupted in a cascade of applause and cheers. Jean bowed to the elated public, before gliding off the ice.

As he stepped behind the barrier, his eyes met Yuri’s and for a moment everything stopped. He wanted to say something. To walk to the idiot and kiss him senseless. To act somehow. But instead Yuri stood there, stupidly staring at him while he put his skate-guards on and hugged his coaches.

Yakov’s arm on his shoulder broke Yuri out of his reverie.

Right, he had to skate too.

 

The corridors were brightly lit. It was a sharp contrast with the dimness of the arena, and Jean had to blink until his eyes adjusted to the white neon lights overhead. He walked towards the locker room, to get changed. His parents had gotten back after his exhibition, but Jean had stayed to see Yuri’s exhibition piece. He had leaned on the barrier with a smile on his face, watching the blond dance on the ice.

He felt his lips curl as he walked through the corridors. Yuri would surely be in the locker rooms soon.  

His smile had just turned into a smug grin when Jean was ambushed by a group of reporters. He did a double-take as the microphones got shoved into his face, but he regained his composure in a heartbeat.

And he quickly plastered his trademark grin on his face.

 _“JJ why did you change your exhibition piece?” “You skated Yuri Plisetsky’s short program. Why?” “How long have you been practising it?” “JJ, what happened?_ ” the reporters shouted one over the other, trying to get an answer, and Jean had to lift both his hands in exasperation before he had a chance to actually say anything.

“I lost a bet.” he told them simply, refusing to go into details even when they started showering him with questions about it. He gave them a wink and a shrug that were supposed to answer their questions but did nothing of the sort.

Just as Jean was about to try walk away from the press, they spotted Yuri and swarmed around him. Taking pity on him, Jean went along with the crowd, coming to stand next to the scowling blond. It was hard to discern the single questions amid the shouting, but they all boiled down to the same.

_“Yuri, what do you think of Leroy’s gala piece?” “Any comment on Leroy skating your routine?” “How does it feel to see your rival skate Agape?”_

“Do you have something to say to JJ?” shouted a petite curly haired reporter, and Yuri looked at her saying

“I actually do.” the reporters immediately ceased the ruckus, jutting their microphones forwards, while Jean frowned. He was looking at Yuri with a mixture of amusement and trepidation. Because he had no idea what he was going to say. And knowing the Russian, it could be anything.

Yuri turned towards Jean, with a small smile curling his lips.

“It didn’t suck.” he told him, no venom in his voice. And Jean’s heart fluttered.

He grinned at the blond.

A moment later, Yuri was elbowing his way out of the mass of yelling journalists, while Jean struggled to hold back a chuckle. The reporters tried to get him to comment, but Jean just grinned, shaking his head and walking away from them.

He doubted it would be the end of it, but he was not going to say anything more. Let them simmer on it. It was good for publicity, if nothing.

 

The streets of Helsinki blurred beyond the car window. Dusk was setting as the late afternoon sun began to set. Yuri sat in the backseat of the cab, watching the scenery speed past him. He tapped his fingers on the inside of the door, having zero interest in seeing buildings and trees awash in the dim light while they drove from the arena to the hotel. His patience had already been worn thin, and he wanted nothing but to get back to his room and get ready for the fucking banquet. He would have given anything to avoid the stupid thing altogether. But he _had_ won gold, he had to attend.

Besides, Jean would be there.

The Canadian was currently the only person he could stand. As if the fucking press hadn’t been enough Yuri had been forced to endure his teammates’ nosiness. Yuri had only managed to successfully evade their questions by telling them to fuck off in various degrees of cursing. And then Yakov had started to grumble and complain like he actually cared about Yuri’s career. It had been the final straw.

After the fifth complaint about “That Canadian pipsqueak, who does he think he is?” Yuri had just slammed his foot on the corridor floor and stomped away from the rest of his team, and hailed a cab.

Yakov had no right. No fucking right! Lilia and him had ignored him ever since the GPF and now he wanted to be pissed because Jean skated Yuri’s routine? Beautifully at that! Yuri was not fucking having it. He had no right to complain. Or to insult Jean.

Yuri gritted his teeth, glaring at the back of the driver’s seat. Jean’s performance had left him breathless, dazed in the best possible way. But now, they had all ruined it for him, with their stupid questions and even more stupid observations. And it was the thing that pissed him off the most. Because they had taken away from him something that was fucking precious.

How dare they? To insult Jean and frown at his exhibition piece, when it was one of the most beautiful things Yuri had seen on the ice.

Angrily, he took his phone out of his pocket and quickly punched in a message.

 _I lied to the reporters._ _  
_ _It was fucking beautiful._

He pressed send and shoved the phone back into his pocket, glaring at the traffic that was slowing the cab down. They had just started moving at a normal pace once again when his phone vibrated.

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_You skate it better._

Yuri let out a huff of annoyance as he fired back

 _Don’t be an idiot!_ _  
_ _That was mind-blowing._

And it fucking was. Yuri couldn’t wait for someone to upload the video on youtube so he could rewatch it in peace. His phone vibrated again. He opened the message.

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_But I thought I was your idiot?_ _  
_ _You break my heart…_

And he _did not_ laugh at it

 

Jazz played softly from the loudspeakers. Voices mingled with the clinking of champagne flutes, while the skaters, coaches and sponsors drifted around the room in a familiar routine. Jean was chattering with several representatives of his sponsors, politely tittering at their poor attempts at humour. His grin never wavered. With well practiced ease, Jean charmed his way through the dull conversation, all the while sneaking glances to the other corner of the room where Yuri was scowling at Nikiforov and Katsuki.

The couple was clearly trying to brighten the blond’s customary sour disposition. To no avail. Jean resisted the urge to chuckle, schooling his features to mild interest. Next to Yuri, Altin was standing with his arm lightly pressed against Babicheva’s lower back, lips pulled in a half-smile, while the redhead grinned widely, gesticulating as she spoke.

He wished he could join them, spending the little time they had left together with Yuri. But he had to do this. It was part of the game.

Jean replied some polite nonsense to the sponsors, nodding as they kept talking about public image and whatnot. Suddenly his phone buzzed in his pocket and he excused himself for a moment.

-YuriP-  
_Are you done sucking up to your sponsors?_ _  
_ _Let’s get the hell out of here._

He quickly typed a reply

 _Give me 5. Where?_ he typed back.

-YuriP-  
_My room? 418._ __  
_We’re not supposed to  leave the hotel._  
_Coaches are being bitchy._

 _Okay_ , he replied putting his phone back into his pocket and flashing one of his trademark grins to the sponsors.

 

Yuri walked towards the elevators, feeling Yakov’s eyes on him. His coach had clearly not believed him when he had told him he was going to his room. He scowled, all but punching the button to call the elevator down. A moment later the doors slid open and Yuri walked in, pressing the button to the fourth floor.

He scowled at the annoying jingle that accompanied his journey to his floor. His irritation from earlier that afternoon had gained a magnitude that had put Yuri on the verge of biting someone’s head off.

Because throughout the past three days Yuri had lived in the moment. And he had forgotten that come Monday they would be flying back to Russia. But at some point during the banquet Katsudon had mentioned their flight, and reality had come crashing around him. He could no longer ignore that this parallel universe was going to fold on itself, dissolving in the dreary greyness of the Russian spring. That he was going back home. To his room in Lilia’s house that was comfortable but never truly his. To the rink where Yakov ignored him and Mila pestered him. To the ice, which was the only constant in Yuri’s life.

He didn’t want any of those things. Yuri didn’t want to let these three days with Jean cease upon the midnight, disappearing like a dream.

He strode down the corridor, feeling a thunderstorm in his ribcage. When he reached his door he pressed the card to the lock and it clicked open. Slamming the door shut brought him a temporary satisfaction that lasted until his eyes fell on the luggage sprawled open on the floor, His costume for the gala was thrown haphazardly on top, and Yuri threw his suit jacket above it, tugging at his tie until it broke loose.

He hated suits. And this one more than any other. He had bought it for this banquet, having outgrown the one he had worn at the GPF. And the fact that it existed for him to wear it at the final gathering of the season, made him want to burn the thing. Yuri did not want the World Championship to be over. It was the fucking best thing that had happened to him in way too long.

Scowling he took every fucking piece of the suit off, pulling a T-shirt and a pair of sweats on. So he could pretend for a minute that it was not a matter of hours before Helsinki will be just a memory.

He had just flung the luggage closed when a knock sounded on the door. Yuri padded barefoot across the carpeted floor and opened it.

The idiot was standing there with his thousand watt smile, his suit jacket casually thrown over his shoulder. He stepped aside to let him in, before closing the door, stopping himself before he slammed it shut. He exhaled, swallowing the lump that was forming in his throat. His anger ebbed away, and a clenching sadness crept in its wake. Jean was looking at him, and Yuri pursed his lips. He didn’t want him to see it. Yuri had the eyes of a soldier. And soldiers were not sad.

“What happens tomorrow?” Yuri asked him, green eyes glinting like steel. His shirt was backwards and there were wisps of hair sticking out of his braid.

“We go back home.” he replied with a small sigh, running his hand through his hair.

“You’re even more stupid when you state the obvious.” Yuri told him, shaking his head.

The motion loosened a few strands of hair and Jean tucked them behind Yuri’s ear, looking at the blond. There was a faint dusting of freckles on his nose, and his mouth had a soft curve when it wasn’t pulled into a scowl. He traced the outline of his sharp cheekbone, and Yuri’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment. Jean leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Yuri’s, and murmured

“I guess we’ll have to figure something out.” then pulling his lips in a teasing smile he added “That is, if you want us to.”

Yuri’s eyes snapped open.

“Why the fuck do you think I asked you to come here?” the blond spat back incredulously.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Jean chuckled, grinning. Yuri rolled his eyes.

And Jean seized the moment to pull him even closer.

“Though, you did invite me to your _hotel room_.” he whispered teasingly in Yuri’s ear “I can think of several other explanations.”

To his delight, Yuri flushed a deep crimson, and Jean had to swallow the urge to laugh out loud. A chuckle still rattled his chest and Yuri must have felt it, because next thing he knew, Yuri’s eyes were narrowing with defiance.

He yanked Jean forward by his shirt. And his lips crashed against his.

He gasped in surprise. And Yuri deepened the kiss. It took him a moment, and then Jean was kissing him back. It was scorching, overwhelming. They were close, so close, Yuri’s hands gripping him tight, and Jean’s finding a sliver of skin where Yuri’s shirt rode up. The blond groaned almost imperceptibly, but it was enough. His hands pushed up, under the fabric, touching the warm expanse of his back. Feeling the ridge of his spine as it arched into his touch.

Their knees bumped and Jean stepped back. Suddenly something hit his calves, and he lost his balance, flailing an arm until it landed on the mattress of Yuri’s bed. And then they were sprawled atop of it, Yuri straddling him, and panting before he dove in for another kiss. Yuri’s hands were in his hair, his chest flush against Jean’s. It was good.

 _Too_ good.

He pulled back, panting loudly. Yuri ducked to capture his lips in another kiss, but Jean put a hand on his chest.

“I…” he breathed “I won’t be able to stop.”

“Why the fuck should we stop?” Yuri asked, his voice hoarse, but Jean could see the hesitation in his movements.

“Because it’s rushed.” he told him, moving his hand away from Yuri’s chest and up to his face, cradling his cheek while he tried get his breathing back to normal “I _do_ want it. But not like this.”

Yuri looked like he was about to protest, but he must had seen something in his expression, because his eyes softened minutely.

“Fine.” he grumbled, then averting his eyes he muttered “Will you at least stay?”

“Can I use your shower?” he said in lieu of an answer and Yuri just rolled his eyes.

He laughed. And kissed him once again. It was slow. Filled with longing. And Jean lost himself to it, circling his arms tightly around Yuri’s back. He could feel the fast thrum of his heartbeat pounding against his own.

“I’ll miss you.” he told him, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear.

“Don’t go sappy on me, idiot.” Yuri snarled, but the dejected look in his eyes clashed with the feigned nonchalance.

“Fine then. I won’t miss you. In fact it will be a relief not being insulted daily.” he said with a grin, and the blond rolled his eyes.

“Who said I won’t insult you?” Yuri replied, affronted “I fully intend to tell you how stupid you are as often as I can! Can’t risk you going back to being an obnoxious moron now that you became tolerable.”

Jean laughed, kissing him playfully. But the moment their lips met once again, the thin veil of levity was ripped off. Because they wouldn’t see each other for a long time. And while Jean knew he was going to do whatever he could to see him before the next season began, he could not make any promises. And neither could Yuri.

Skating was too important for the both of them.

 

Jean had left early in the morning, leaving Yuri to an empty bedroom filled with the grey light of  dawn. He had kicked his stupid luggage twice trying to forget about the aching hole that had appeared somewhere between his lungs, and which had been threatening to swallow him whole. Then he had sent a message to Beka, telling him to meet him for breakfast.

Mercifully, his friend appeared sans Mila, which was borderline miraculous. Or maybe Yuri was just jealous that he got to see her today. That he would be coming to Saint Petersburg with them and was going to stay for two weeks before returning to Almaty. That Mila got to have Beka with her, while Yuri had to go back home, half the fucking world away from Jean, before he even had the time to make sense of the fact that he _had_ been kissing the idiot just a couple of hours earlier. That for all intents and purposes they were an item now.

“Yura.” Otabek said, ripping him out of his thoughts. He was giving him a look that meant _Spill it._ And Yuri scowled. He didn’t want to talk about it. But he supposed that after the instagram selfies, Jean performing his routine, and the two of them disappearing from the banquet early, Yuri owed his friend an explanation.

“Jean and I are together, I guess.” he said, staring intently at his cup of black coffee.

“You guess?” the Kazakh lifted an inquisitive eyebrow.

“I don’t guess, I know.” he snarled, then without any real heat he added “Fuck you, Beka. Shouldn’t you be surprised or something?”

That earned him one of Beka’s rare huffs of laughter.

“What?” Yuri exclaimed, looking at the Kazakh’s amused expression. His dark eyes were dancing with mirth

“Nothing.” he said.

“Tell me.” Yuri demanded, putting his palms flat on the table.

“Fine.” Otabek sighed “Yura, you’ve been talking about JJ nonstop since the Nationals. It wasn’t hard to guess.”

Yuri blinked twice, torn between embarrassment and outrage. Because what the actual fuck! He had figured it out two days ago. How the hell had Beka realised it _months_ ago?

“I started talking to him at the Four Continents because of you.” Beka added, to Yuri’s befuddlement.

“What do you mean?” he asked, with a frown.

“I’m your friend.” Otabek replied as if it explained everything. Which it didn’t.

He opened his mouth to protest, but the Kazakh wasn’t finished.

“I’m happy for you, Yura.” Beka said, then he added “But long-distance is a lot of work.”

And Yuri catched the implied _Are you sure you’re up for it?_ He scowled, throwing a defiant look at his friend. He sure as hell wanted to make it work. But there was that familiar undercurrent of fear that he couldn’t shake away.

The one that made him tether between running away to spare himself the hurt of being left behind, and grasping Jean closer and never letting him go. And it was incredibly frustrating that he was about to do neither. That soon enough they would be literally half the world away. That they would be back to texting each other and the occasional phone call. Just like before.

But things were not like before.

Before, Yuri’s heart had not pounded almost painfully at the thought of not seeing the idiot. He had not wanted to kiss him senseless, to wrap himself around him and never let go. He had not known how it felt to wake up with his head cuddled on Jean’s chest, with the sound of his heartbeat loud in his ears. He had not known how mussed his stupid hair was when he woke up, or the way his eyes looked when his lids were half-closed with grogginess.

Otabek must have read his thoughts on his face or something, because he said

“If it’s worth it, I’m sure you’ll fight for it.” and there was something so matter-of-factly in his voice that Yuri found himself with no reply.

Instead he focused on his untouched breakfast.

 

The days dragged on sluggishly. April was in full bloom, and during the day the front yard was a riot of bright greens and yellows. In the mornings when Jean would go to his run, there was a fine mist clinging to the grass and the air smelled of spring. But he found it hard to enjoy it, throwing himself with renewed vigour into his studies. And when the formulas started to blur in front of his eyes he would move to the piano, working on his music for the upcoming season. Anything to keep the longing at bay.

The low notes dripped from his fingers like the pitter patter of spring rain, only for the higher notes to build a melody that was wistful and hopeful at the same time. The lyrics he had written back when Yuri had been at the Europeans, rolled through his mind. The music climbed into a crescendo, getting stronger, almost overwhelming. Only to slow down. But his fingers chased the notes with an earnest desire to climb that hill once again, to try over and over. And he moved over the keys, feeling the music deep inside him, flowing through his fingertips.

On an on he played until each and every chord was spent. And he pressed the last notes, letting them fade into silence.

Lifting his fingers from the keys, Jean stretched his arms, feeling the kinks in his shoulder pop. He was spending far too much time sitting these days. It was going to be hell when he began properly training. But his short program music was done, at least. He had the melody down, so his mother could start working on the choreography, while Jean busied himself with arranging it.

He fished his phone from his pocket and typed a message to Yuri.

 _The music for my SP is finally done._ __  
_Only the FS to go._ __  
_How are your programs coming along?_  
_How is Moscow?_

They had been texting each other daily, struggling to work around the time zones and their respective schedules. Still, they did mange the odd phone call every now and then.

His phone chimed and Jean unlocked it.

-YuriP-  
_Moscow is okay._  
_Victor will choreo my FS._ __  
_But the rest sucks._ __  
_I’m probably gonna have to start_  
_looking for a new coach…_

Jean frowned, quickly typing

_Why?_

The reply was almost immediate.

-YuriP-  
_It’s a long story._

 _Wanna talk about it?_ Jean sent him.

But Yuri didn’t reply. Sighing, Jean got back to the piano and began playing his short program song once again. It was going to be an amazing song once they recorded it. Once the the last notes drifted in the silence of the room, Jean got back to his feet and walked to the windowsill where he had left his phone.

Yuri had sent a caustic “ _Fine”_ , several minutes before and Jean wasted no time in pressing the call button. And braced himself. He had a feeling it as not going to be a pleasant conversation.

Two rings later Yuri picked up.

“I didn’t hear the text alert. What happened?” he asked without preamble and heard an irritated sigh. He leaned with his back against the window while he waited for Yuri to speak.

 _“My coaches have been ignoring me since I fucked up at the GPF.”_ he said at last, and Jean frowned

“You didn’t fuck up at the GPF.” he told him, bemusement clear in his voice. “You skated well...”

 _“I flubbed two jumps and it costed me the gold.”_ Yuri interrupted him _“It was not perfect. Lilia wants perfection. I fucked up.”_

“She can’t possibly hold a couple of slightly wobbly landings against you.” Jean rebutted angrily, moving away from the windowsill and pacing through the room “You’re a fantastic skater. What the heck?”

 _“I’m… Fuck this. Look it doesn’t matter.”_ Yuri said with irritation, but Jean was having none of it.

“No, Yuri. It _does_ matter.” he told him, walking back and forth between the piano and the window “Your coaches are saying you’re not good enough for them to coach you?”

 _“They haven’t said anything.”_ Yuri said with a frustrated sigh _“That’s the thing. I haven’t heard them yell at me since Marseille. Lilia hasn’t scolded me in ages, and trust me that’s not fucking normal.”_

Jean just shook his head.

“I’m a bit out of my depth here.” he admitted, running his fingers through his fringe “I can’t recall the last time my parents had to raise their voice with me. But I guess that’s different coaching methods.”

Yuri didn’t say anything so Jean trudged forward.

“Look, maybe you should talk to them.” he suggested “They looked pretty happy when you won at Worlds.”

 _“I noticed.”_ he snarled angrily _“They have the gall to be fucking pleased. Like_ they _did any of the work! I have been practically coaching myself for the past months. They don’t get to be_ proud _about it!”_

“I still think you should talk to them.” he said, then trying to lighten the mood he added “Or you could always come to train in Montreal.”

 _“My Grandfather is in Moscow and it’s bad enough being in Piter.”_ Yuri told him seriously _“I can’t move half the fucking world away from him. What if he gets sick or something?”_

Jean didn’t ask about the rest of Yuri’s family. Somehow he had a feeling they were not really in the picture.

“Then I guess you’re gonna have to look for a coach in Russia.” he told him simply “And Yuri, you won the World Championship _and_ broke a couple of records. Anyone will want to coach you. Even with your temper.”

He added the latter as a joke and it had the intended effect.

 _“Fuck off, you idiot! I don’t have a temper.”_ Jean laughed, leaning on the piano, and not really caring if he left fingertips on the smooth dark surface.

“Whatever makes you sleep at night, princess.” he teased “Speaking of which isn’t it insanely late in Moscow?”

 _“Yeah, it’s like two in the morning.”_ Yuri replied _“I guess I should go.”_

There was a moment of silence before Yuri added

 _“Um..._ spasibo.” it was barely more than a murmur, but Jean felt warmth pool under his sternum.

“ _De rien_ , Yuri.” he told him softly “Goodnight.”

 _“Night. Idiot.”_ Yuri grumbled.

And Jean shook his head.

 

The weather was miserable. A cold unforgiving rain was pouring over Saint Petersburg and by the time he made it to the rink Yuri had been drenched. He peeled off his damp clothes, changing into his practice gear. He had gotten back from Moscow the night before, after spending a fortnight with his grandfather. He had hailed a cab to drive him to Lilia’s place, all the while thinking about the conversation he had had with Jean a few days before. How he should talk to his coaches. And he guessed the idiot was right.

But before he did that, he needed to take care of his free skate.

After rubbing his hair with a towel until it was at least partially dry, Yuri walked out of the locker room and strode towards the silver-haired skater who was gliding lazily on the ice, while his fiancé pointedly ignored him from the other end of the rink. Victor had been behaving strangely ever since Worlds. There was a tension between him and Katsudon that hadn’t been there before. Yuri had almost asked them what the fuck was going on, but instead he marched towards Victor, waiting for him to acknowledge him.

Once he skated to the barrier Yuri shoved a disc in his hand .

“This is the music for my free skate.” he told him

“Okay.” the older skater said, with a puzzled expression “I wasn’t aware you had chosen something.”

Yuri didn’t reply, keeping his scowl firmly in place. He tapped his foot impatiently and Victor miraculously seemed to get the cue for once.

“Can you put this on?” he asked and Yuri nodded, walking to the stereo and putting the disc in.

The music was as breathtaking as it had been the first time Yuri had heard it. Perhaps even better, now that it was arranged. The sound of the piano dominated over the other instruments, but there was a steady beat from the drums and something low that could have been a cello? Yuri was not very good at recognising instruments. Beka was the music expert. And apparently Jean.

Not that Yuri hadn’t known that before, but he had always refused to acknowledge the Canadian was good at something. That was, until he had stopped behaving like a dick. He could admit now that Jean _was_ good at both skating and composing. And that he had a good singing voice. Though, it didn’t change the fact that “Theme of King JJ” was horrible, and should have never seen the light of day.

“What it this?” Victor asked, genuinely curious when the piece reached its end.

There was an edge of awe in his voice. It made Yuri feel a sparkle of pride in his chest. He smirked smugly, saying

“It’s an original composition.”

“It’s amazing!” Victor exclaimed “Who composed it? I really like it.”

Yuri eyed him for a moment, weighing his options. Fuck it. Who cared.

“Jean” he said

Victor’s eyebrows shot up, and he glanced towards Katsudon who had stopped pretending he was angry at the moron.

“JJ composed this?” Victor asked and Yuri rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“Are you deaf? Yes, the idiot composed it. It was a fucking birthday present. There. Happy?” he exclaimed, watching Victor’s eyebrows climb higher and higher.

“Wh..” the silver-haired moron began speaking only to be interrupted by Katsudon who said.

“It’s a beautiful composition! I’m sure Victor will do a wonderful choreography to it.” he spoke with far too much enthusiasm for it to be genuine, but Yuri didn’t give a fuck.

“Whatever.” he said “As long as I win with it, I don’t care.”

He did care. But he was not going to admit the way his heart thumped every time he heard the song. They may be dating, but Yuri would sooner chop off his hair than become as gross as Victor and the pig.

With that resolution firmly set, Yuri laced his skates up and walked on the ice.

He may not have a routine yet, but he still had jumps to practice.

 

Yuri’s song began playing. Jean leaned back into the seat, adjusting his headphone. He was watching the streets of Montreal blur through the car windows without really seeing them. It was still very early in the morning and they were driving to the rink, Mél curled into her jacket, dozing off. Jean spared his sister a look while he listened to the notes jumped up and down, weaving with one another. He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. In the pale darkness behind his eyelids he could clearly picture Helsinki, the orange of the streetlights dancing in Yuri’s hair and the way his mouth curled into a wry smile. Cobblestone mixed with the large expanse of sky that had hung overhead while they had walked through the Finnish capital, getting lost.

Jean listened to the piece he had composed for Yuri’s birthday and he almost wished he could compose it once again, if only to express the overwhelming lightness he had felt in those three days. To knit the memories into the notes.

Maybe he should just write a new song.

He felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips. He could do that. He could pour all the unexpected joy and surreality of Helsinki into music. Perhaps it would ease the constant longing he felt whenever he thought about Yuri. He missed him so badly. It had been nearly a month since they had flown out of Helsinki, and he wished more than anything to take a plane to Saint Petersburg. But it was not so simple. Skating came first, for the both of them, and while they were off season, there was the plethora of obligations Jean had. There were people who relied on him. The band, the Leroy Foundation. He couldn’t just drop everything and take the first flight to Russia. No matter how much he wanted it.

And he did. He kept raking his head to try and find a way to see Yuri without disappointing anyone in the process. But it seemed impossible.

He stifled the frustrated sigh that threatened to escape his lips. It had been so easy with Isabella. She had lived in Montreal, and while Jean had always been terribly busy, they had always managed to cut out some time for each other. But Yuri was four thousand miles away. And there was a whole ocean and a continent separating them.

He took his phone out of his pocket, typing

_I miss you._

And pressed send.

Yuri was going to call him sappy, but Jean didn’t care.

 

Mila’s giggles resounded in the rink. Yuri rolled his eyes, checking his phone while he took a break. He scrolled down his Instagram, looking at the pictures Jean had posted in the past few days. There were selfies snapped at the rink, and photos taken at what were apparently charity events, if Yuri read the caption right. All in all Yuri had seen enough JJ style signs to last him a lifetime, but he just smiled wryly as he looked at the various photos the idiot had posted.

For all that he hated the whole JJ persona, Yuri would have preferred to be subjected to it than not seeing the moron at all.

He tried to push down the longing that had been a constant shadow on the edges of his thoughts ever since Jean had left Yuri’s hotel room in Helsinki. Yuri was not used to miss people. And even less to admitting himself that he _did_ miss them. But with every text message and every phone call, it became increasingly harder to pretend he was okay with it. Because he wasn’t. Not a bit.

More than once he had been on the verge of booking a flight to Canada and flipping off everyone. Yakov and Lilia didn’t give a fuck about him anyway. But he was afraid that if he did take that plane, he would not want to return to Saint Petersburg. When Jean had jokingly suggested he should come and train in Montreal, Yuri had been so tempted to take the offer. But he couldn’t leave his Grandfather alone in Russia. His mother was unreliable at best, and even if he could count on her, Yuri refused to entrust his Grandfather’s wellbeing to a woman he had barely seen in the past decade.

A string of muttered Japanese broke him out of his thoughts, and Yuri lifted his eyes from the screen he had been staring blankly at for the past ten minutes.

Katsudon was getting up from ice, dusting off ice shavings from his clothes. Victor shouted something at him, but the Japanese just pursed his lips, skating on. Yuri frowned, looking at the two of them. Victor had a pinched look on his face and Katsudon was acting strangely. There was an undercurrent of something that seemed almost anger in the way he skated lately. Not to mention that he seemed to be actively ignoring the old man lately.

Yuri’s frown deepened, but he elected to leave them to their own devices. He had his own problems to care about. Heaving a sigh, he put his phone away and got up from the bench. It was time to get back to practice. Perfecting his jumps was far easier than dealing with all the shit that was piling up around him.

And it made the next season look closer.

Yuuri and Victor were staring silently at each other when Yuri passed them by, and in spite of his earlier resolution, he could not help but wonder what the hell was going on with them.

 

It was early and the rink was mostly deserted. Jean had finished stretching and had just sat down on a bench to lace up his skates. His mother was not done with the choreography yet, but he was working with his father on his elements. Learning to skate Yuri’s routine for the exhibition gala had made him realise he had room to improve his spins. He could only do so much about his flexibility, but  he knew he could make his transitions smoother in the combination spins.

He had just finished tying the laces of his left skate when he noticed his mother approaching him. He looked at her as she sat down on the bench next to him and squared her shoulders. He dropped the laces and waited for her to speak. Jean knew that expression. And it never bode well.

“Jean, what is going on?” she asked him, her glasses framing the worry in her eyes.

“What do you mean?” he frowned, shaking his head in confusion.

“You’ve been acting strangely lately.” she told him, and then softly “Is it Isabella?”

“Izzy?”

“I listened to the piano version of your songs.” Nathalie said carefully “It’s not like you to bottle things up”

Ah.

“No, maman. It’s not Izzy.” he told her, looking at her with a forlorn expression.

Nathalie pushed away the fringe from his forehead, silently nudging him to tell her more. And Jean sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and letting his head drop. He was aware he had been moping ever since they boarded the plane at Helsinki-Vantaa. He had done his best to keep the wistfulness at bay, but every time he looked at the calendar hanging on his wall, all he could think were how many _months_ separated him from the qualifiers, and just how long it would be until he saw Yuri unless he managed to work a miracle and find a way to fit a trip to Saint Petersburg into his packed schedule.

But his mother didn’t know that. She had no idea he lived for a handful of text messages and the occasional skype call with Yuri.

“It’s Yuri.” he told her and his mother furrowed her brow in confusion.

“Plisetsky?”

“Yes. I’m… I’m going out with him.” Jean told her, marvelling at how odd it sounded spoken out loud. Otabek was the only one in the know, and they hadn’t told anyone else yet. There just hadn’t been enough time.

“You’re going out with him?” his mother repeated flatly, eyebrows climbing under her fringe.

“Yeah.” he said with a wistful grin “And well, I’ve been missing him. So that’s why I’m a bit down lately, I guess.”

His mother didn’t say anything, but the thin line her lips were pulled in, spoke volumes, and Jean felt his shoulders slump a notch. A spark of disappointment flickered like a pinprick in his stomach.

“You’re not happy.” he said, dropping his head. Jean he hadn’t given much thought on his parent’s reaction. And while he could understand his mother’s reservations, it still came as a surprise.

“Jean, I…” she began, but clamped her mouth shut a moment later. Then she heaved a sigh and said “You’re old enough to make your own decisions. I just don’t want to see you hurt. And that Russian kid is well…”

“He’s actually quite nice…” Jean interrupted her “Well okay, not really _nice_. Let’s just say he’s not so bad once you get past his punk exterior. Yuri is witty and sarcastic, but he also cares a lot about the people that are close to him. He’s like a walking contradiction...”

Jean was aware he was rambling, but he didn’t want his mother to give him the disapproving look she was currently sporting. Nathalie listened to him, with an unreadable expression in her brown eyes. As his voice drifted off, she pulled him into a hug, whispering

“I only want you to be happy, Jean.” and he tightened his grip around her shoulders. He knew she wasn’t convinced, and it stung, but he also knew she would try for his sake. It would have to be enough. Even if it didn’t curb his disappointment.

Slowly they untangled from the embrace, and his mother got back to her feet.

“I’ll see you on the ice.” she told him, and he nodded, watching her retreating form.

Jean sighed, dropping his head to his knees. And breathing.

After a while he finished lacing his skates and took his phone from his pocket. He had to tell Yuri. He typed

 _I told maman about us_.

Jean had barely pressed send when his phone to started to ring immediately. He knitted his eyebrows, bemused, and answered the call.

“Yuri.” his greeting got cut by Yuri’s concerned voice

“ _Are you alright?”_  he asked him, voice mingling with the sound of skating and shouts in Russian that drifted from the background.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” he told him slowly, deepening his frown “You’re worried?”

 _“You said you spoke to your mother.”_ Yuri bit back, snarling defensively _“Of course I got fucking worried.”_

“There’s no reason to be” Jean told him calmly. He cared a lot about his family, but at the end of the day he knew they would accept whatever he chose. It wasn’t something to lose sleep about. “I mean, my mother isn’t exactly happy, but she’ll come around eventually.”

 _“Oh, okay.”_ Yuri replied before falling silent.

“Yuri, are _you_ okay?” he inquired, unsure of what was happening, of why had Yuri been so concerned.

 _“I’m fine.”_ Yuri answered too quickly, and then awkwardly he grumbled. _“I… I have to go back to practice.”_

“Yeah, sure.” he said “I should get started too. And really, it’s no big deal.”

Yuri mumbled something in the speaker. And then they were saying their goodbyes. When the call disconnected, Jean lowered his hand, staring at the blank screen of his phone, confused.

What the hell had just happened?

 

It was getting late. The large windows next to the rink were shrouded in darkness, and the ice was full of deep wedges. Yuri unlaced his skates, looking at the corner of the rink where Katsudon was drinking water with his back turned to his fiancé who was trying to give Georgi a run for his money with the way he stared at the pig. Yuri tapped his fingers on the plastic of the bench, before getting up to his feet and striding towards the silver-haired moron.

After watching the two of them mope for two straight weeks at the rink, Yuri had had enough.

“Okay, I’m fed up with you.” Yuri said angrily, prodding Victor’s chest with a finger “What the fuck is going on with you and Katsudon? And don’t you dare tell me you’re breaking up or something because I’ll kick some sense into both of you if I have to.”

“I thought we were gross.” Victor told him teasingly, but his eyes were dull

“Don’t fuck with me, old man.” he spat “And talk.”

“Fine.” Victor said, dropping the fake smile, and looking at the ice longingly “I’m retiring.”

“You’re what?!” Yuri all but yelled “What the fuck?!”

Victor exhaled a weary sigh, and shook his head.

“Yurio, the way you skated at Worlds, I can’t skate like that.” he told ”Even Leroy was better than me. And I _am_ getting old. The only way from here is down.”

“So, you’re giving up.” Yuri said flatly, feeling the anger give way to an endless expanse of disappointment.

Victor was serious this time.

He was truly retiring.

“I want to be a good coach to Yuuri.” Victor told him in a rare display of seriousness “And maybe I’ll become a choreographer or something. I still like making routines.”

Yuri shook his head, unable and unwilling to process it now.

“Katsudon is pissed about this.” he said, not really a question, but Victor nodded nonetheless.

“He’ll come around.” Victor said with a tinge of sadness.

“You’re a moron.” Yuri told him and stomped off.

 

The air was dry and hot. All the amplifiers were plugged in and between the loudspeakers and the lights, Jean was sweating. He uncapped a bottle of water and drank greedily. His throat was parched after singing the same song too many times to count. They were trying to find the right edge to it, but it kept lacking something.

Jean put the bottle down, and leaned back against the wall, listening to the heated debate that was going on over the choice of which chord to use for a section of the chorus. He was about to add his opinion when he felt his phone start to vibrate in his pocket. He sneaked a glance at the screen.

Yuri was calling him.

Jean frowned, holding a hand in the air, silently mouthing to the drummer that he had to take this. He quickly exited the studio, closing the door behind him. And answered the call.

 _“Victor is retiring.”_ Yuri exclaimed into the speaker

“What?” he asked, flabbergasted.

 _“The old man is fucking retiring.”_ Yuri was speaking fast, distress tangible in his voice.

“Is this official?” he asked, pacing through the corridor while he tried to make sense of what Yuri was telling him. Victor had just gotten back this season, and he had won the GPF. Sure he had gotten bronze at Worlds, but it was no reason to retire.

 _“Not yet, but he told me just now.”_ Yuri replied _“Katsudon is not happy by the way.”_

Yuri went on, explaining how the Japanese was disappointed, and that everyone at the rink was shocked at the news.

Jean was aware to an extent of the odd amalgamation of friendship, rivalry and annoyance that marked Yuri’s and Victor’s relationship. That Nikiforov was an important figure in Yuri’s life, for all that the blond always complained about him. And the more he spoke, the clearer it became that Yuri was not upset because he was losing a rival. It went way deeper than that.

“So, he’s leaving the ice for good?” he asked.

_“He’s gonna coach and do choreographies and shit.”_

“Maybe he could coach you too.” Jean said, and there was a moment of silence on the other end, before Yuri exclaimed

_“What?!”_

“Well, he is already choreographing your free skate, right?” Jean said with a shrug, while he paced the length of dimly lit corridor with its minimalistic furniture. “Might as well go the whole way.”

 _“Are you out of your fucking mind?”_ Yuri shouted through the speaker.

“Why?” he asked earnestly “I mean, you do have a problem with your coaches, right? And Victor will be coaching only Katsuki, I imagine. The two of you go along. It only makes sense.”

 _“I don’t go along with him.”_ Yuri rebutted almost petulantly and Jean laughed.

“Sure you don’t.” Jean replied with a huff of laughter “Look, I’m just saying, give it a thought.”

Yuri grumbled something in reply, and Jean wanted to add more, but someone opened the studio door, and they were calling him back. He was reluctant to leave Yuri while he was still upset, but he had to go.

When he told him so, Yuri called him an idiot.

Jean grinned.

 

The ceiling was dark. Thin stripes of light faintly danced across it as a car sped by in the street below. Yuri could not sleep. He kept rewinding Jean’s words in his mind. As he tossed and turned under the covers he was stuck on his idea. And how stupid it was. Yuri didn’t get along with Victor. Imagining them as coach and student was ridiculous. They would never get anything done.

Although he _had_ taught Yuri the Agape routine well enough for the limited amount of time they had had on their hand.  But it was a moot point anyway, because even if Yuri miraculously found a way to tolerate the old man’s airheadedness and lovesick behaviour, he seriously doubted Victor would want to coach _him._

He may had won Worlds, and broken a couple of records along the way, but Yuri had not forgotten for a single moment about the weakness that lurked just under the surface. He still woke up from nightmares too often to be able to brush them off. And the only reason why he had managed to do his free skate in Helsinki without feeling the harbingers of panic, was because he had skated his emotions, forgetting about the routine, about the jumps and spins, just moving along the music and feeling it. He had carved the ice with the flutter in his chest and the breathlessness of kisses.

And for a moment he had forgotten about the cold grip of panic and the disapproving look on Lilia’s face. He had forgotten about the way Mila and Georgi had looked at him after he had broken down in the lunchroom. And the way Beka’s voice had led him back to a semblance of self after his free in Marseille.

But the memories had wasted no time in reasserting themselves.

Laying there in Lilia’s guest bedroom with a thick duvet shielding him from the cold air, Yuri could not forget what he was. And what he would never be.

He had the eyes of a soldier.

But he was weak.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay! These past weeks have been hectic. I really hope this chapter will be enough of an apology. <3

_“The night was trembling with a violet_ _  
_ _Expectancy. At the far edge it moved”_

_Simpson, I Dreamed That in a City Dark as Paris_

 

It was getting late. The dusk was setting behind the large windows of the rink and the neon lamps above cast their sharp light onto the ice. Yakov stood by the barrier watching Yuri leap into a Salchow. His skin looked almost sickly pale in the artificial light as he spun in the air. Four rotations and he landed it smoothly. Yakov nodded. Like always the jump had good height and distance, and he could almost forget the boy had gotten through a growth spurt in the past year, and might still grow. Even Vitya had had a poorer season when his bones had started growing at a faster pace, putting a strain on his muscles and joints. But Yuri had skated through it all, keeping his impeccable balance and implementing the ballet elements with a fluidity Yakov could only wish for in his female skaters.

He was an ever evolving monster indeed. Winning the Grand Prix on his Senior debut, outscoring Victor and becoming the world champion. Breaking records in the process, but above it all, the way he had bled and sweated on the ice and the barre. Yuri was made of grit and dedication. Always pushing himself beyond his limits. And succeeding.

In a decade of coaching him there had been no obstacle Yuri had not been able to overcome. And it had made Yakov foolishly forget the boy was not unbreakable.

After a lifetime on the ice Yakov had seen too many skaters burn and crash, destroyed by the pressure of a sport that forced them to grow up way too soon and dismissed them when their peers were just starting their adult lives. He had seen much talent wasted in the buzzing silence of breakdowns. He should have noticed the signs on time. Instead he had allowed it to get this far. And the GPF had been a harsh wake up call.

Yakov could not recall the last time he had seen his ex wife so distressed. Cracks had spidered through her composure, because Yuri was in some twisted way the child she had always refused to have. Brash, pigheaded, and rough around the edges, but made of hard steel on the inside.

And yet they had broken him. They had pushed him too far.

They hadn’t been able to do much in the middle of the season, so Lilia and him had agreed to ease their regimen and give Yuri some space. After all his skating was better than any other skater his age, so no harm would come from a softer approach.

In hindsight Yakov should have guessed that with Yura things were never as he expected.

He heaved a sigh, shaking his head while he watched the boy work on the Rippon variation of his Lutz. For the past month Lilia and him had debated their course of action. They could not leave Yuri with no guidance, there was a whole season to prepare for. But on the other hand their method was clearly harming him. They were both too old to change the way they coached, and Yakov had many other skaters besides Yuri who needed him. Which was how Victor had been introduced in the equation.

It had been Lilia’s idea. And after the initial outrage Yakov had agreed it was a sound one. If he managed to sell it to his former pupil. Vitya was unpredictable on his best days, and while he could very well be elated with the proposition, Yakov would not be surprised if he refused it point blank. There was no telling with him. Yakov was a man who liked order. Vitya on the other hand had not a single bone of it in his body, which was something that had made him wonder many times over the past twenty years if he was being punished for something. Coaching Victor had made his hair turn grey way before its time.

Shaking his head he turned his back to Yuri and strode towards the other side of the rink. He walked to the barrier, leaning his elbows on it as he came to stand next to Vitya. He got a nod in acknowledgement before Victor turned his eyes back on the Japanese boy who was practicing his spins. Giving them time to ease into the conversation, Yakov observed Katsuki.

He had been a surprise ever since that Cup of China two years ago. In spite of costing him his most prized student, Yakov was pleased his initial assessment of the Japanese had been profoundly wrong. He had done Vitya a world of good. And having him in the rink in Saint Petersburg was a blessing in itself. Unlike the unruly bunch Yakov found himself working with, Katsuki was a skater any coach would wish for. He listened to advice, respected authority, came on time. Above it all the Japanese _did not_ disobey at every given opportunity.

When Yuuri finished working on his spins and skated to the other end of the rink to grab a bottle of water, Yakov turned to Victor.

“Vitya, I want to speak to you about Yura.” he told him, not beating around the bush.

“What about him?” he asked, a puzzled frown knitting his silver eyebrows, while his gaze darted to Yuri for a second. Yakov wondered how he should ask him, but in the end chose the direct route.

“I want you to take over his coaching.” he declared, empty pleasantries bedamned. Victor gaped at him, but Yakov trudged on “You have only one student and Lilia and I will do the boy more harm than good. He needs a softer hand.”

“Yakov…” he began, but Yakov butted in.

“I’m not expecting an answer right away.” he said gruffly. After two decades of coaching him, he knew Victor well enough to see the hesitation and confusion in the set of his shoulders. “Just think about it, yes?”

Victor gave him a long look, before his head slowly moved into a nod. There was uncertainty in his gaze, but there wasn’t much Yakov could do to sway his opinion one way or the other. There was only one person who could do that, and he was currently wiping his forehead with a towel on the other side of the rink.

Yakov patted Victor’s shoulder twice.

“Good.” he grunted, the _thank you_ stuck behind his teeth, and made his way back to his students. “And tell that boy of yours his free leg is sloppy.”

Victor’s lips curled with amusement.

 

The music played through his earbuds. Piano notes rose and fell in synchronicity with Jean’s movements on the ice. He was doing bits and pieces of the new choreography, trying to get a feel of it. He glided across the rink, leaving a trail of ice shavings as he did an outside mohawk. Smoothly he transferred his weight to his free leg.

It was good, but not good enough.

After learning to skate the Agape routine Jean knew he could improve his transitions. He may not be as flexible as Yuri, but he could force his foot to turn at a greater angle than this. He made a mental note. The music moved into a crescendo and Jean marked a jump before moving on the next element.

The short program music was slower than his usual choices, so his mother chose to put more emphasis on the transition between jumps and spins, weaving a meticulous dance of connecting elements and moves in the field. It was in a way more similar to Yuri’s routine than the programs Jean had performed in the past seasons. But his exhibition skate in Helsinki had shown both Jean and his parents that he was more than capable of skating something introspective, delicate even.

He gained speed before doing a half flip, extending his back leg while the forward one was bent at the knee in a solid stag jump. He skated forward as the slow drag of the music propelled him. There was still a lot of work to be done, but they had plenty of time to make adjustments. Jean had a feeling it was going to be amazing once it was done. The more he tried the choreography the more confident he grew in his ability to climb that podium next season. And snatch that GPF gold for himself.

Hell, he had outscored Victor Nikiforov at Worlds. Which was something he still had trouble believing. He chuckled to himself as he remembered how Yuri had threatened to stop talking to him if he brought that up one more time, claiming that the first fifty times he had stated his surprise should have made the information sink even through that thick skull of his. His lips extended into a grin as he skated in counters.

It was amazing how easy it was to be with Yuri. The same tension that had lingered between them before the GPF was still present, but it had morphed into easy banter, and a more persistent longing. A need to be close and see Yuri’s sneer, his grins hidden behind his patented scowl. To kiss him.

Some days he yearned for the timeless bubble of soft light that had surrounded his last morning in Helsinki, when he had woken up with Yuri’s hair fanning over his chest, and his chest had tightened at the sight. At the almost angelic expression of a sleeping Yuri.

Other days he remembered the way it had felt to press his lips into a hard kiss, running his hands over Yuri’s skin. And the way his heart had pounded rapidly as they had gotten closer and closer. As they had toed the line in the sand. And how much he had wanted to push further. To see, to touch to explore. But it had been too rushed, too deeply woven with the ticking of time as their departure had loomed closer.

The rest of the time Jean just counted the days until the next season officially began. May seemed bent on dragging with a slowness that made him miss Yuri more with each passing day. He wanted more than anything to hop on a plane and knock on his door in Saint Petersburg.

But he couldn’t get a week off, no matter how hard he tried. There was always something, someone who required his presence. And while Jean enjoyed his collaboration with the band or the work he did at the Leroy Foundation, he was getting frustrated.

He shook his head, trying to break free of his stream of consciousness. He glided across the ice in a spread eagle before bending his leg into an Ina Bauer. His back could only bend backwards as much, so a layback was out of question, but Jean still tried to flex his spine as much as he could.

After all, he wanted to win.

 

The morning sun was a pale blob of whiteness. It glared weakly off the ice as Yuri skated compulsory figures to warm up. Katsudon was doing the same on the other end of the rink, fully concentrated on his motions and Yuri could tell the older skater was doing a precise work of it. Just watching him with the corner of the eye while he worked his way through a figure eight was enough for Yuri to see that the Japanese would have seriously kicked ass in the old figure skating system when compulsory figures were part of the competition.

When he had been little Yuri had hated doing them, and he had used to bitch and moan about Yakov’s insistence on them, but he was glad he had been forced to repeat the figures until he could skate them in his sleep. There was a certain sense of calm that came from the effort of tracing clean lines onto the ice. It was almost peace.

And now more than ever Yuri needed it.

In the quiet of the off-season Yuri felt the pressure increase exponentially with each passing day. Yakov and Lilia were giving him long looks that made him want to grit his teeth and yell at them. Katsudon was still standoffish with Victor, and the old man not only did nothing to fix that, the moron, but he also gave Yuri these speculative gazes that lingered too long. Yuri had barked at the silver-haired idiot more than once but Victor had dismissed him with his front-cover fake smiles, the one that had made Yuri want to stomp over the ice and punch them off his stupid face. So he decided to ignore him.

If he wanted to stare Yuri didn’t fucking care, he could do whatever the hell he wanted.

It didn’t change the fact Yuri had no idea what was wrong with everyone, though. The strange balance they had all reached around Worlds had been shattered by Victor’s decision to retire, and now everything hung precariously.

And Jean’s words still echoed in Yuri’s mind. Some days he could almost find himself warming up at the idea. But there was always the same reservation lingering in the back of his mind and stopping him when he was on the verge of confronting all the idiots that surrounded him and finally clearing the air.

Because deep down Yuri was afraid Victor would say no.

The memory of the Onsen on Ice was still fresh enough in Yuri’s mind. Even before his weakness had taken root inside his chest, squeezing his lungs whenever things were _too much,_ Yuri had not been good enough to be coached by Victor. Why would it be any different now? Neither Lilia nor Yakov seemed to consider him worthy of their time. And he was no longer whole. The eyes of a soldier were just a mask for Yuri to hide behind, Beka knew that. Lilia and Yakov too. And Jean probably had an inkling.

It should have frightened him, the ease with which he found himself opening up with the skater who had been his greatest rival until shy months before. It didn’t, and that was yet another testament of how fucked up he was.

And that was the root of the problem. Yuri was a mess. He didn’t want to see another pair of eyes look at him in disappointment. And if by some strange twist of fate, Victor actually agreed to coach him, he would find out. He would see that Yuri was limbs and bones barely held together by a last thread of sheer will.

Gritting his teeth, Yuri skated out of a Paragraph Bracket and worked his way through the ice. He gained speed before he took off into an angry Salchow. It carried all his frustrations on the rotations. He landed and leapt up into a double toe, and then on the wings of the momentum he skated on to add speed before he leapt into another combination. Triple Axel - triple loop. Yuri managed to raise both his arms during takeoff. A sudden strain in his muscles took him by surprise and he almost popped the landing.

It wasn’t unexpected, but it had been too intense. Frowning Yuri moved on, trying another triple Axel. Several combination jumps into it the pain in his left leg became too strong to do any jump.

He didn’t understand. Maybe he had pulled something. But he had executed his jumps perfectly. It made no fucking sense.

Deepening his frown he began working on his spins. He had just properly warmed, there was no fucking way he was going to take a break so soon. He pushed on, gaining speed before he entered a camel spin. The world whipped in front of his eyes, but he paid it no mind. He lowered into a sit spin and felt the centripetal force do its magic. Then he straightened into an upright spin. Everything was a blur as he rotated around his axis fast faster.

And then he slowed down. Before the inevitable stop Yuri used the momentum to propel his body forward and then diagonally across the rink. Not giving a shit about the throbbing pain in his thighs he leapt into a Lutz and extended both his arms above his head. One, two, three revolutions and then he was landing it. He caught the edge right, and swung his free leg.

Another sharp pain tore through his thigh, this time the left one.

Yuri almost cried out, but ended up biting his tongue instead. He tasted blood. But moved on, lowering his body to hydroblade. He scowled, lifting himself and skating quickly until he had enough speed to jump into a quad flip. He was not going to be stopped by stupid pains that made no sense. And while he knew the sensible thing to do would be calling it a day, Yuri _needed_ to prove himself he could. That he was _not_ weak.

Not fully at least.

Four rotations above the ice and he was touching down. The landing was wobbly but he managed to salvage the jump at the last moment, gritting his teeth through a sharp ache that tore through his free leg.

The pain lingered, growing duller but never completely disappearing, and what the actual fuck was wrong with him?

 

A full day of training left Jean’s muscles pleasantly tingling with exertion. He lay atop his bed, chatting with Yuri about various nonsense, and trying to convince the latter to got to sleep. It was pretty late in Saint Petersburg, and for all that Jean enjoyed talking to him, they were both professional athletes. They needed to take care of their bodies. And Yuri had complained about a sudden bout of aches in his legs that had worried him somewhat. Hopefully it was just another growth spurt, but he still couldn’t banish the pinprick of concern. Sighing he typed a goodnight, and smiled wistfully at the small icon next to Yuri’s last text.

He really missed him.

Jean had just opened Instagram to look at Yuri’s most recent upload when his door slammed open. It loudly hit the wall and Jean jumped up in his bed, alarmed.His sister was standing there with a wild look in her eyes.

“Mél, what happened?” he exclaimed, scrambling down from his bed while his sister made a beeline towards him.

“Jean!” she cried out, hitting him on the arm, and Jean barely had the time to understand what was happening before she was practically yelling at him ”I… you… Why didn’t you tell me you’re dating Yuri?! _Plisetsky!_ ”

“Mél…I…” Jean tried to reply, blinking, but she trudged on, flailing her arms. It was too late and he was too tired for this, but his sister didn’t seem to care, all but yelling at him

“… he’s a boy! I mean I didn’t even know you played for both teams, and I am your sister, I should know these things!” she whined, blue eyes wide in outrage “Why didn’t you tell me? I had to overhear maman talking on the phone with aunt Claire!”

“Mél, I’m sorry.” he said quickly when she paused to catch her breath, and she snapped her mouth shut “We haven’t really told anyone yet, I mean we only got to spend three days together in Helsinki…”

“But that was _ages_ ago!” she exclaimed, and then with an accusing frown she added “And you did tell maman.”

“I did.” he replied apologetically “And about him being a boy, well that’s something I’ve kinda known since high school, that I like boys too, that is.”

“You never said anything…” she rebutted, crossing her arms.

“Because I thought I’d get to spend the rest of my life with Izzy. It wasn’t really important.” he told his sister. And before Izzy, he hadn’t really been okay with it, but his sister didn’t really need to know that.

To know about the shame that had used to lace his memories of the toned muscles and broad shoulders of the boys who had shared the locker room with him. Of the fear at the way his body had used to react. Because he _had_ liked girls, but those chiseled chests had been so different from the soft curves or lean arms of the girls. And Jean had felt so confused.

Then Izzy had come along. And suddenly it had stopped being important. It had taken Jean a long time, but eventually he had come to terms with himself.

“Jean?” his sister said in a softer voice, and he shook his head snapping out of his thoughts.

He gave her a lopsided smile.

“I guess I never formally came out, huh?” he said half-jokingly, and Mél swatted his arm. But it was true. His mother had always intuitively known, but Jean had never stated it outright. It was just another label, as far as he was concerned.

His musings were interrupted by his sister who narrowed her eyes at him

“You know this means I get to meet him, right?” she exclaimed and Jean stifled a chuckle at the barely contained excitement in her expression

“Absolutely.” he told her, throwing a wink.

“This doesn’t mean you’re forgiven for keeping _Yuri_ a secret, you know.”she told him darkly, but her eyes were twinkling and Jean could not really take her seriously. Especially since he was sure she wouldn’t have thrown such a tantrum if it had been dating anyone else.

After all Yuri was her idol.

“Don’t be like that Mél.” he said teasingly “Or I might just _forget_ to bring Yuri here.”

“Oi! You can’t do that!” she complained loudly punching his shoulder “ _And_ you’re not allowed to break up with him before I meet him either.”

Jean blinked.

“Why would I want to break up with him?” he asked her dumbfounded.

“I don’t know. It’s not like you were getting along so well, am I right?” Mélanie said with a shrug, and Jean found his eyebrows knitting. He shook his head to push away the uneasy thought.

“Yeah, but we’ve been talking for months now.” he rebutted slowly “We actually get along”

Something must had shown on his face because his sister’s testy expression fell and she looked at him with her blue eyes wide.

“I’m sorry Jean, I didn’t mean it like that.” she said in a small voice, throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a crushing hug. “I was only joking” she muttered and Jean hugged her back.

“No harm done, little pest.” he told her with a grin, then cocking an eyebrow “Though with the strength you got in your arms I think you should try playing hockey.”

Mélanie laughed, hitting him again as she untangled from the embrace.

“I think Tommy would kill me.” she said with a laugh.

“Or he might thank you.” Jean bit back “Would make it easier to break it to our parents that he wants to switch to hockey.”

“Not so loud!” his sister admonished him with a wary look towards the bedroom door which was wide open, and Jean looked at her sheepishly.

It was the most guarded secret of the house, the fact that Tommy wanted to quit figure skating to focus on hockey which he enjoyed more. But with everyone in the family being figure skaters and ice dancers their younger brother was loath to break the news yet. Even Jean wouldn’t have known if his brother hadn’t accidentally let it slip.

Which meant it was only a matter of time before their parents found out. If they didn’t already knew. After all their mother seemed to possess a sixth sense for sniffing out their secrets.

Jean shook his head.

“Are you done harassing me?” he asked his sister.

He got another punch on his shoulder in reply.

 

Spring was in full bloom. Sunlight fell softly on the blades of grass that grew in the small outcrops of green. The pavement was mostly empty this early in the morning and the sound of Yuri’s feet was loud against the backdrop of traffic that sped by him. He jogged stubbornly down the streets of Saint Petersburg, biting down a wince. His legs throbbed with a fierce ache that spread from deep within, fanning out until it encompassed every sinew, and turning his training sessions into torture.

It _was_ yet another growth spurt, Jean had been right. He had not wanted to admit it, but seeing his sweatpants grow too short on him had been hard to ignore. He had tried to stop it from interfering with his training, but no matter how hard he tried, with every passing day it looked more and more unlikely that he would be able to force his way through it by sheer willpower.

Why the fuck was this his life?

His jog brought him near the bridge which spanned across the Bolshaya Neva, and he slowed down to a stroll, and then to a stop. Yuri leaned his arms on the railing, trying to will the pain away. His legs felt like a knitwork of dull aches that kept expanding. He looked at the sunlight reflecting off the river in shimmers of silver and Yuri inhaled the cooler air that breezed over his sweaty skin. In less than a month the ISU assignments would be published and Yuri couldn’t let his body get in the way of his training. Not now that Victor was nearly done with the choreography for his free skate and Yuri was about to begin learning the routine.

Time was trickling by and Yuri knew he would have to solve the issue of his short as well. Nothing was happening on the coaches front and Yuri was wary of causing a scene and burning bridges he might still need to cross. He did not want to have to take the season off.

Not that it actually fucking mattered now. He couldn’t even land a double without wincing in pain, let alone quads. He cursed, scowling at the large armlet of the Neva that flowed under the bridge, entirely oblivious to the maelstrom that was brewing inside Yuri.

He fished his phone from his pocket and angrily typed

_I hate my stupid body._

Jean must have just woken up because he replied quite quickly

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_What happened? And if it helps I don’t…_

He rolled his eyes.

_Don’t be gross, you idiot. I’m growing once again._ _  
_ _I’m an inch taller and it’s not fucking stopping._

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_You’ve mentioned growing pains..._   
_I’ve gotten so used to seeing the top of your head_  
 _I guess I’ll have to start getting on the top podium from now on._

No fucking way, he thought, quickly tapping his reply.

_Keep dreaming. I’ll crush you next season._

Yuri could feel his lips curl into a smirk, that slowly eased into a smile when he realised the idiot had actually managed to dispel the stormclouds from his mind. At least somewhat. A text chimed and Yuri tapped it open.

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_Are we making another bet?_

Yuri was quick to type

_As soon as the ISU assignments come out._

And Jean replied a heartbeat later.

-JeanCanadianMoron-  
_Fair enough. <3 _

 

The shrill sound of laughter bounced off the champagne flutes. It mingled with the voices and the faint music playing in the background. Jean smiled politely at the woman he was talking to, flashing her his most charming grin. It was a promotional event for the new autumn/winter collection of the JJ brand, and Jean had to be at his most polite.

The royalties he got from letting them use his name covered a good portion of his skating expenses, and with the four solid sponsors plus several minor ones he had, Jean did not have to worry about finances. But it all depended on his public image. On him chattering pleasantly with people he truly didn’t care about knowing, and donning the fraying JJ mask that was getting less and less comfortable to wear.

The brand had been his brother’s idea. Tommy’s classmates had been going crazy about a clothing line for girls that wore the signature of some teen celebrity, and he had blurted that out that Jean should do it too. After all he was more known than the idol his classmates fawned over. Jean had laughed it over, but when he had told Izzy about it, she had beamed at him, enthusiastic about the idea.

Jean didn’t mind it to be honest. He even got a say on the style. It had to be “JJ style” after all, he mused with an inner roll of his eyes. What he _did_ mind was having to spend a whole week dealing with the fashion show and making public appearances when he could be flying to Saint Petersburg. Instead he had to pretend he was ecstatic about being there, while he knew he would only have a day off before he had to start recording the new album with the band. And studying for his upcoming exams in the spare time.

Above it all he had to skate, because the ISU assignments would be published in a week and then the frenzy would start.

Which meant there was just no time to visit Yuri. And he wanted it badly. It was getting hard to manage the longing, to keep smiling and pretending when all the wanted was to be four thousand miles away, grinning at Yuri’s scowls. Or kissing him senseless.

He downed the champagne and excused himself from the conversation he had frankly stopped listening a while ago. Instead he fished out his phone and typed a text.

_I wish I could fly to St.Petersburg._ _  
_ _Banquets are the worst._

Yuri replied quickly.

-YuriP-  
_As long as no one is pole-dancing it should be bearable._

Jean chuckled, typing

_XD Or doing dance-offs…_

Yuri’s answer was immediate.

-YuriP-  
_Are you challenging me?_

He shook his head as he replied.

_Nah, I don’t compete if I don’t stand a chance._ _  
_ _Now, if we’re talking ballroom, that I can do._

-YuriP-  
_You need a partner for that, idiot._

Jean picked a flute of champagne from a tray and sipped at it as he wrote.

_Are you volunteering?_   
_Also, no quips about me dropping skating since I can’t seem to win?_  
 _I’m disappointed…_

-YuriP-  
_Too easy if you could predict it._

He could almost picture the eyeroll, but he did notice Yuri had avoided his question.

_You haven’t answered my question._

He had never thought about it before, but now that he had mentioned ballroom, Jean was actually quite intrigued. He could already picture it. With Yuri’s flexibility dips would be delightfully easy...

-YuriP-  
_That’s because I’m ignoring it._

Yuri’s text interrupted his train of thought.

_Aw come on, you’re good at dancing, I’m good at leading._ _  
_ _Plus I’m still taller than you._

-YuriP-  
_Don’t be so sure about the last bit. I’m still growing._

Another chuckle escaped his lips.

_Is this a yes?_

-YuriP-  
_Will you stop annoying me while I’m trying to make breakfast?_

Jean stared at the text, but a bit of mental calculation later, he realised Yuri must had just woken up. It was terribly early in Saint Petersburg.

_Shit, I forgot it’s the crack of dawn there._   
_I’ll hold you onto that._   
_So foxtrot or waltz?_

-YuriP-  
_Didn’t you say you’ll stop pestering me?_ _  
_ _I don’t like waltz._

He typed back.

_Foxtrot it is._ _  
_ _Have a good day princess._

-YuriP-  
_Fuck off, idiot._   


 

Blades were slicing the ice. Jean’s song was playing in the background echoing from the tall ceiling of rink. Yuri watched from the bleachers as Victor skated the routine he had choreographed. He hated to give credit to the old man, but the had to admit it was a fucking awesome routine. Technically challenging and yet perfectly balanced in artistry. It was a gold medal worthy free skate if Yuri ever saw any.

As Victor exited a triple Axel-triple toe combination Yuri could not shake the strange feeling pooling in his chest. There was something in the way Victor moved that pulled at Yuri’s heartstrings much in the same way the music had done that morning when he had heard it for the first time. The mixture of energy and abandon in motions, the fast paced spins which abruptly slowed down to catch the pauses in the music, the jumps, perfectly scattered throughout the routine, high and set to cover a long distance, everything spoke to Yuri in a way that was terrifying and exciting at the same time.

This free skate was him. It was Yuri turned into the slicing of the blades and the centripetal force of a spin. It was the nameless struggle that never left him translated into the fight against the pull of gravity, against the ever present hardness of the ice that threatened and loomed, but the sharp rotation of a leg just steadied Victor as he moved on, fluidly dipping his torso only to abruptly straighten his spine and do a spread eagle.

Yuri was not easily impressed. But Victor had fucking outdone himself.

The music slowly faded into silence, but Yuri’s heartbeats were almost deafening in his ears. He stared at Victor, blinking.

“This is fucking beautiful.” he whispered, and faintly noticed the perplexed expression on Katsudon’s face.

Victor was looking at him from the centre of the ice, with a contemplating expression that was growing familiar. Yuri had been seeing it nearly constantly on the old man’s face. And normally it irritated the fuck out of him. But right now he couldn’t care less. He wanted to pull his skates on and start learning this routine. He wanted to _feel_ it, translating the emotions he had felt at the sight into motions. He wanted to own it.

It was a routine that drew from the depth of Yuri’s soul and how the hell had the idiot managed to compose a music that felt so deeply right was something Yuri could not understand. Even less how had Victor managed to dig into the music and create something that resonated within Yuri at the very centre of his being. How these people could see him so well when Yuri _never_ allowed anyone to get in, it was just beyond him.

And he didn’t give a fuck to be honest.

He had never wanted to skate something so badly. And it was all that he cared.

 

White light flashed harshly from the laptop screen. The darkness of the room seemed deeper as Jean’s eyes struggled to adjust to the glare of the ISU web page. The assignments were about to be published, and while it was the crack of dawn in Montreal, it was a decent morning hour in Switzerland where the ISU had their headquarters. Jean crossed his fingers, hoping against hope to share at least one event with Yuri.

He was still unable to do anything about the endless stretch of miles that separated them, and the frustration was becoming hard to endure. It made him feel like he was not trying hard enough. Like he was failing as a boyfriend.

His heart stuttered at the word, even as he thought it.

They had never used it. They had never even properly claimed being in a relationship. And for all that it seemed an inconsequential detail, it chipped away at his confidence, feeding the sticky cobwebs of anxiety that were curling around his thoughts more and more often. Jean fought it, like he had always done, not allowing it to take root. But it was not as easy feat, and it left him more exhausted than a whole afternoon of doing quads.

He shut his eyes, rubbing his temple with his fingers. He tried to focus on the music that was playing quietly from his speakers, clearing his mind from all the clutter. He had always edged very close to the chasm, toeing the line but only crossing it a couple of times. But when he had it had been bad. Barcelona had been a textbook example. And Jean knew it was something that lurked behind the corner of his thoughts, but he had grown apt at dodging it. At forcing himself to see the truth in the mirror.

And when it came to Yuri the truth was simple enough, Jean missed him. Everything else, all the insecurities and frustrations stemmed from that one single emotion that seemed to large to be encompassed by the simplicity of longing. And yet it was.

Exhaling slowly, he opened his eyes and blinked twice before focusing his gaze back on the screen. He hit refresh.

And yes.

They were up.

Jean leaned forward on his chair, scrolling down the page and looking for his name. A moment later he saw he had been assigned Skate America and the NHK Cup. It was not ideal, the first and last event, but at the same time it would give him plenty of time to rest and perfect his routines before the GPF. He did not waste thoughts on whether he would make it. He was going to Japan for the final, there was no other option for him.

Steadying the small part of him that fed on his doubts, no matter how deep they were buried, Jean’s eyes began to look for Yuri’s name. They were both on the NHK! He grinned. The end of November was far away, but at least they had one competition together before the GPF. His eyes kept scanning the list until he found Yuri’s second event. Skate Canada.

He had hoped it would be Skate America. But it wasn’t bad. Not at all in fact. Skate Canada was going to be held in Kingston this year, so Jean could actually drive there and see Yuri. It was a three hour drive, but surely easier to arrange than flying somewhere. His grin widened. He fished out his phone and rapidly typed

_I’m so kicking your ass in Japan!_

-YuriP-  
_The NHK or the GPF?_ _  
_ _Are we betting on this?_

_Both. And absolutely!_

-YuriP-  
_What do i get for crushing you?_

_So self assured… I guess you won’t mind this:_   
_If I win you’ll skate one my routines at the gala._  
 _I think it’s only fair. ;)_

His phone pinged a moment later.

-YuriP-  
_That’s not gonna happen, idiot. But fine._   
_That’s one though. What about the other?_  
 _And you still haven’t told me what I get when I win._

Jean laughed, rapidly replying.

_IF you win, princess. And idk right now._

-YuriP-  
_You’re useless. Fine. I’ll think of something._

He typed back

_So charming, princess, so charming._

-YuriP-  
_You’re one to speak._

Jean almost pouted, typing

_I’m charming!_

-YuriP-  
_Nope._

_But I charmed you…_ he wrote with a smirk.

-YuriP-  
_You stopped being a dick. That’s not the same thing._

Jean blinked, before shaking his head.

_I feel like we’ve already had this conversation._

Now that Yuri mentioned it, he did seem to recall it. His phone chimed.

-YuriP-  
_That’s because we did, idiot._   
_Ugh, I have to get back on the barre._  
 _Lilia’s gonna kill me._

He replied

_It’s ok. Have you talked to her and Feltsman?_

-YuriP-  
_Not yet._

Jean frowned, all mirth draining out.

_I wasn’t joking when I said you can always come here._ _  
_ _You know that, right?_

-YuriP-  
_Yeah, yeah, I know._ _  
_ _I really gotta go._

He smiled, typing back

_Okay, princess. <3 _

 

The barre was slick with sweat. Yuri’s hands almost slipped off the wood, but he steadied himself on time. And bit back yet another wince. Lilia shot him a cold look before she dismissed him from the class. It took all of self-control not to insult her. Because what the hell? He _needed_ to practice. Yes, ballet may had become hell, much like the ice still was, but Yuri could not waste precious days of training. Not when he had a free skate to master. Yuri had thought that after a couple of weeks his body would stop fucking with him, but apparently it was not going to happen. He was being crippled by his stupid bones growing. And to make matters worse, the ISU had posted their assignments.

His first one was at Skate Canada, which gave him roughly four months to prepare. Normally it would be enough, but with his coaches’ situation unresolved, no short program whatsoever and his body deciding that a third growth spurt was a cool thing to have, Yuri had no fucking idea if he was going to make it. And the thought made his inside wound tightly.

He had tried talking to Beka, but his friend had been just so fucking calm. Apparently none of this was impossible to deal with. For the first time in two years Yuri had almost told Otabek to go fuck himself. Because really, like _talking_ would solve anything. There was no way he would be able to have a conversation with his coaches without shouting out all the resentment that had pooled in the past six months. There was just no fucking way that particular talk would be anything short of a shouting match. And Yuri was not ready to burn his bridges.

So with Beka being fucking useless, Yuuko being too ecstatic about the fact that she could come and see him skate at the NHK Cup and insisting he should visit Hasetsu since he was already in Japan, and Jean being too fucking far away to be of any use save repeating the same shit Beka told him, well everything taken in consideration Yuri was one step from lashing out at the whole universe and every possible parallel dimension. Because what the fuck! Was there any way in which his life was not completely screwed over right now?

He stomped towards the locker room, slamming the door open.

Yuri was sick and tired of it all. He wanted to know who the fuck was going to coach him next season, he wanted a short program, and above it all he didn’t want to have to wait for the end of fucking November to see Jean.

Staring at the paint peeling off the lockers in front of him, Yuri tried to still his breathing, but his mind kept running in circles. Everything was spiralling out of control. And he needed to get his life into track. He hated this. All this shit.

He pulled the locker open, picked out his bag, shucked his belonging into it and slammed the locker closed before he left the rink. It was fucking early, but Yuri didn’t care. He couldn’t skate, he couldn’t dance, he couldn’t fix the shitton of issues in his life.

In all that list there was only one thing he could fucking do, but even that was borderline stupid.

Or maybe not.

He blinked. Maybe it wasn’t foolish. Irresponsible, yes, but Yuri had done worse. And this, this fucking shit of a situation was just too much. He needed to act. To _do_ something. He had ever been good at sitting and waiting for things to run their course. He was too impatient for that.

He stood on the bus stop, staring in the distance without really seeing. Maybe it _was_ time to act. Maybe Yuri just ought to do it. And flip off everything and everyone.

Because fuck them all, he was done moping, and feeling like a caged animal.

He was the Ice Tiger of Russia.

No one could stop him.

 

A light breeze fluttered in the canopy sending a pleasant chill over the grass. Toffee was running back and forth through the lawn as Jean played fetch with her. The sun shone brightly above them and Jean felt a small smile pull at his lips. June been dragging on with a never ending string of days that linked to one another, filled with studying, recording, grinning at the flash of cameras, and then more more. Interviews, charity events, photo-shoots for his sponsors’ ads. Every day seemed busy to the brim, and when he wasn’t skating he was texting Yuri or enjoying the rare reprieve with his dog.

But while normally he would have enjoyed it all, his mind kept crossing four thousand miles of ocean and land, yearning to see Yuri and willing time to pass quicker.

It didn’t. And Jean felt the distance chip away at the sunlight that kept filtering through his window almost in a mockery of Jean’s loneliness.

And fear.

Because they had had so little time together, and while everything seemed perfect, Jean feared it would all vanish when they saw each other once again. That the way they had perfectly slotted one next to the other on that last night, with Yuri’s head on his shoulder and his willowy arms snuggled tightly around Jean’s waist would not last. More than two months had passed since their first kiss and subsequent first date, and yet they had spent most of it far away, separated by time zones and a distance that Jean was afraid to touch for fear that it would be solid under his fingertips.

Rationally he knew he was letting his anxiety take over him, much like it had done in Barcelona, but as he sat on the grass in front of his home, distractedly petting Toffee, Jean could not escape the feeling of impending doom. The sensation that the ground would be pulled from under his feet and he would fall down down down into that abyss of loneliness that reminded him that he was not enough. That he was a disappointment. That he had to try harder for everyone.

And he wasn’t. That was the thing.

He wasn’t buying a plane ticket and flying to Saint Petersburg, everything else be damned. Wasn’t he just justifying his own adequacy at making room for Yuri in his life. Shouldn’t he had already figured a way to find enough time, to get a few days off?

He could feel his fingers tremble in the thick golden fur of Toffee, and a knot was growing larger and larger in the pit of his stomach, inflating with every breath. He had used to be so arrogant to claim he could rule the world, when in fact he had not control over his own life let alone anything bigger than that. He was a disappointment as a figure skater, a disappointment as a son and brother, and above it all a disappointment as a boyfriend.

And Yuri was going to realise it, sooner or later. Like Izzy he was going to leave. Because Jean was a disappointment.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he did not notice his mother approach until she was sitting down on the grass next to him, gardening gloves clutched between her palms. She eyed him with a knowing look and offered a small smile.

“Your birthday is next month.” she said after a while, petting Toffee’s tummy “Your father and I were thinking you could use some time off.”

“Talk of impossible.” he said with a sigh “My schedule is a nightmare…”

“We’ll figure a way.” Natalie butted in “Is there any place you’d like to go? I’ve competed once in Saint Petersburg, and let me tell you it’s a stunning city.”

Jean blinked.

“I thought you didn’t like Yuri.” he said, frowning in confusion. His mother heaved a sigh, pulling him into an awkward hug what with the dog splayed between them and the height difference

“Jean, I want you happy. Everyone in this family does.” his mother told him softly “You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know” he said, feeling a smile tug at his lips, while the storm that had raged inside his chest receded beyond the horizon, leaving a bruise blue sky and battered earth in its wake.

“So, when do you want to leave?” she asked him with a grin that eerily resembled his own.

And Jean smiled.

 

The white night had barely brightened into a proper dawn. Yuri yawned tiredly, looking at the hues of orange on the horizon. The water stains on the window  grew glaringly visible as the sunlight hit them. Beyond them the tarmac glittered with morning dew. A never ending expanse of flat greyness that shimmered in the soft light of the waking day. The flight assistant was droning the safety routine, her voice fading into background noise as Yuri leaned back into the seat. He had heard hundreds of time already, and he felt his mind drifting off. He had not slept the whole night, having left Lilia’s home a bit after midnight to catch a cab to the airport because luggage check in had been scheduled to an ungodly hour. But it was the first flight available, so Yuri bit back the brunt of his curses and soldiered on. He was fairly sure there was more caffeine in his veins than actual blood, but at least he had managed to stay awake and get into the fucking plane.

In less than twelve hours Yuri had done his luggage, made reservations for a room  and called his Grandfather to tell him where he was going. And then he had proceeded to sneak out of Lilia’s house without the former prima ballerina noticing. Not that she would have been able to stop him. She had no authority over him. But he wanted to avoid an altercation. Especially since he had been on a tight schedule.

He felt his lips curl into a sleepy ghost of a smile. The rush of adrenaline that had carried him through the night was waning, but his heart still thumped erratically. He was about to fucking fly to Montreal. To see Jean. The discomfort of takeoff rolled through his body but he barely paid it any attention, basking in the last dredges of excitement which still kept him awake.

Because his body may had conspired with everything else to make his skating nigh impossible, and his coaches situation may be a tangle he was unable to fix now, but everything taken in consideration, there was nothing stopping him from seeing Jean. Even Beka had agreed with him when he had called him in the middle of packing his luggage. The Kazakh had frowned a bit at Yuri’s abrupt decision to do so, and the secrecy he had been sworn to, but in the end he helped Yuri plan his trip. After all he had lived in Montreal for a while.

Yuri had forgotten about it. And it had felt like a stroke of luck. He would have never been able to find a decent bed and breakfast at such a good price, and with such a short notice if it hadn’t been for Beka. His advices of fixing the current clusterfuck his life was may had been useless, but at the end of the day Yuri was glad to have him as a friend. He was fucking precious. And Mila better treat him right or he was going to run her through with his skates. He would have to remind her once he returned to Russia.

Another yawn tore through his body, and he snuggled into the hood of his shirt. The return journey was the only thing he had not planned yet. He had no fucking clue how long he would stay in Montreal. Yuri should be preparing for the upcoming season, but with the fucking growth spurt making it impossible he could stay for as long as he fucking wished. So it all depended on Jean and his schedule. Jean whom he would see in seventeen hours. His heart stuttered even as his eyelids began to drop.

He didn’t fight them. Soon lazy thoughts twirled around his consciousness as the exhaustion of a sleepless night began to drag him under. Flashes of colour. Half formed memories. Everything mingled into a whirlpool of ever expanding calm.

He was nearly there, disconnecting from wakefulness, when a small thought flew past.

And Yuri’s eyes snapped open.

“Fuck” he muttered, eliciting a glare from a lady nearby, but he barely registered it. Because in all the fucking hurry he had forgotten to do one extremely important thing.

He had not told Jean he was coming.

In all the hurry with the preparation he had kept delaying texting him because he had wanted to be sure he _was_ going to Canada before breaking the news. So Yuri had ignored the three texts Jean had sent during the course of the day and busied himself with the last minute preparations.

And at some point it must had slipped his mind. Fuck.

He had organised a fucking trip halfway across the globe in a couple of hours and he forgot to inform the one person he was coming to see. And to make matters worse he was not allowed to use his phone until they landed for their stop in Barcelona.

He muttered curses at his own idiocy. He was such a fucking moron.

Fuck.  

 

His bedroom was dark. The heavy curtains were pulled and there was just a sliver of sunlight peeking through the waves of thick fabric. Jean turned in his bed, trying to blink back the grogginess of sleep. A wide yawn and then he lowered a leg off the bed, propelling his body to a sitting position. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He was usually more alive in the morning, but the day before had been exhausting, between training at the rink in the morning, the crippling bout of anxiety that had soured his afternoon and then going to a promotional event for the new single his band had released. He had not stayed late, after all he had to be back on the ice in a couple of hours. But it had still exhausted him, and he had collapsed in his bed, falling asleep the second his head had hit the pillow.

He had wanted to skype Yuri. They had not heard each other yesterday, and he had not replied to any of Jean’s texts. But in the end his body had claimed precedence and he had fallen asleep before he could even formulate the thought of calling him. He yawned again and got up from his bed. It was not the end of the world. Yuri would be on lunch break in a couple of hours and he would call him then. It was just the one good alignment they had in their schedules: Yuri was on lunch break around the time Jean got to the rink, so more often than not he could spare a bit of time to skype him. It was not an everyday occurrence, but it was something to count on at least.

Jean smiled sleepily as he stretched his muscles, trying to untangle the kinks in his muscles. He padded barefoot to the bathroom and leisurely went through his morning routine. When he pulled back the curtains on his window his room was flooded with sunlight. And he found himself grinning at the dewy grass of the lawn under his window and the golden sunlight flooding the street with its neat rows of trees and the picket fences of the neighbours’ houses.

He was in a good mood. After the conversation he had had with his mother yesterday he felt lighter. He knew it was nothing definitive yet, he had to discuss it with Yuri first, but it was something. Jean was going to see him, not in some indefinite moment of the future, but soon. And the thought alone was enough to make him want to jump around in joy the way Toffee did when she was told she would be going for a walk.

Pulling a T-shirt and shorts on, Jean walked out of his bedroom and all but skipped down the stairs. Toffee must have sensed his cheerfulness because she began wagging her tail in excitement. He laughed at her antics as she circled around him making his trip to the kitchen almost impossible. With a shake of his head he lowered to a crouch and scratched her playfully, cooing at the fluffball.

Half an hour later he was leaning on the kitchen counter, sipping his morning coffee, when he realised he had not checked his phone since the night before. Putting the half-empty mug down he fished the phone from his pocket and unlocked it. There were dozens of app notifications on his screen, and among them a text one.

He scrolled to it and tapped. It was Yuri’s. So he _had_ replied after all. Though it must have been in the dead of night. Or more likely early in the morning. They had talked at that particular hour only a few times, like when he had sent him the song he had composed for Yuri’s birthday. And each time Yuri’s grumpiness had been tangible. Not a morning person, he thought with a chuckle.

His phone’s screen had already turned dark, and he shook his head at how off distracted he was this morning. He pressed the button and unlocked the phone, opening Yuri’s text.

He was glad he had put the mug on the counter. Because his phone almost slipped from his hands and tumbled down on the floor. Jean stared at the message. Dumbfounded. Completely effing dumbfounded.

-YuriP  
_Pick me up at Pierre Elliot Trudeau Airport at 14:45._ _  
_ _Also fuck planes._

His heart beat a syncopated rhythm and he reread the message, just to be sure. But it was there.

Yuri was coming to Montreal. In a couple of _hours._

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the delay, but in my defence I spent a whole week too engrossed in the World Championship in Helsinki and real life figure skating to find time to write at my usual pace. To all those who claimed the results in the YOI competitions were exaggerated, google Yuzuru Hanyu's record breaking FS in Helsinki. Boy did I enjoy watching it on livestream...
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to [Ruize_chan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruize_chan/pseuds/Ruize_chan) whose amazing comments helped me get through an acute case of writer's block. <3

 

_ “You are violets with wind above them. _ _   
_ _ A child - so high - you are,” _

_ Ezra Pound, A Girl _

 

The airport was buzzing with people. A strange amalgamation of English and French filled the airy corridors. Above it, the plastic wheels of his trolley rattled as Yuri followed the stream of people. His movements were still sluggish from the fitful sleep he had fallen into during the flight. He stifled a yawn, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He had switched it off at some point because the battery had been dwindling. And the proof of it flashed in the upper right corner the screen. A miserable ten percent. 

Groggily, Yuri looked for Jean’s reply amid the plethora of notifications that flashed underneath. While he scrolled through an impressive array of messages and missed calls, he tried to blink away the last shreds of sleepiness which still lingered in his mind. And then he found it. Wedged between Mila’s all-caps text and a text from Georgi, of all people, was a text from Jean.

-JeanCanadianMoron-   
_ Ok... _

Yuri frowned at the unusual curtness of the message. 

It was strange for Jean to lack eloquence. Had Yuri fucked up? Maybe he should have announced his visit. The people who surrounded him were used to his penchant for abrupt decisions. So he had just assumed Jean would be okay with it. But what if he wasn’t? 

He groaned, shaking his head. A knot of belated concern twisted in the pit of his stomach, and he bit the inside of his lip, glancing at the large windows. The sun was shining brightly above the Montreal airport. And the glare reflected off the glass surfaces making him squint his eyes. 

Twisting his lips in a self-deprecating scowl, Yuri tore his eyes away from the view. There wasn’t much he could do now. What was the fucking point in wondering about the what ifs?

Shaking his head, Yuri trudged forward. Several gates later and he was getting into the large Arrivals area. He scanned the crowd, looking for Jean’s telltale undercut. But where the Canadian normally stood out for his height, he seemed to blend in quite inconspicuously here. 

He almost snorted at the thought. Jean was anything but. And yet he couldn’t seem to find him. 

He had just unlocked his phone to type him a message wondering where the fuck he was, when a couple of loud squeals made him turn his eyes towards one of the glass doors. 

There, surrounded by a couple of over ecstatic fans, was Jean, blinding grin and all. 

And Yuri’s heart stuttered.

Jean had not noticed him, and he was giving the girls one of his patented JJ signs, posing with each of them for commemorative selfies. The usual tingle of annoyance was nowhere to be found. All Yuri could feel was a strange breathlessness flooding him at the sight the angle of Jean’s shoulders, the sharpness of his jaw. The way his red t-shirt hugged his body,. The tan arms with their chiselled muscles, and the lock of hair which artfully dangled in front of his forehead. There was a throb inside Yuri’s chest that was new and familiar at the same time.

They had seen each other on skype. And Yuri had spent way too much time looking at every picture Jean posted on Instagram. But it was uncomparable to seeing him. 

There, just a couple of feet away from him. 

In that moment it was hard for Yuri to think that less than a year ago he used to bitch and moan at the thought of having to be on the same competition as him, let alone the same room. Had Yuri cared about it he would have found it almost ironic that the sight of Jean Jacques fucking Leroy stole his breath away now.

But as it stood, he didn’t give a fuck about that. Because it had been nearly three months since the last time he had seen him. Since he had last  _ kissed  _ him. And Yuri was done waiting. 

So, pulling his luggage with a determined stride he made his way towards the small gathering of JJ girls, giving zero fucks about his fans. Jean fucking lived here, they could harass him any other day. 

He was a couple of feet from them when Jean noticed him, and his plastic grin brightened up to something entirely genuine. And Yuri’s heart skipped several beats. The JJ girls looked puzzled for a moment, before following Jean’s line of sight. 

Just as the latter closed the distance between Yuri and him. 

Yuri dropped the handle of his luggage and all but jumped into his arms while Jean engulfed him in a bear hug. 

He was here. 

Yuri was here, willowy arms wrapped tightly around Jean’s chest and chin leaning on his shoulder. He was here, in his arms. Jean’s heart beat impossibly fast. How was it possible to miss so badly something he had barely had the chance to experience? Something so preciously different from anything Jean had had before.

Because Yuri was as unique as it could get. Delicate and unbreakable at the same time, soft and sharp, he was angel blond hair tickling Jean’s neck, and bony fingers digging in his back, almost as if they were afraid to loosen their grip. 

Yuri’s chest pressed against his own so close he could feel his heartbeat. It thrummed as fast as his own. And Jean knew that he had longed for this more than he had known. That in that moment nothing mattered as much as holding Yuri close to him. And never letting go.

“I missed you.” he murmured in his ear, his voice hoarse from the lump of emotions that was lodged somewhere between his windpipe and his clenched lungs. 

Yuri’s hold tightened for a moment and he lifted his head from Jean’s shoulder. All of a sudden Jean found himself staring into his wild green eyes. And he could have gotten lost in them. But a moment later Yuri’s lips were connecting with his own. 

And Jean’s eyes fluttered closed, letting himself go. 

He kissed him with all the weeks of unspoken longing lingering on his lips. With the confusion and emotions that rushed like a tidal wave. Jean drowned, forgetting about the distance so terrible he had felt every mile of it weight inside him. In the strong press of Yuri’s lips against his own, all the thoughts, all the fears and slithering vines of anxiety, all burst in flames, scorching and yet so far away. 

Because there was nothing but Yuri. 

They lingered in the kiss. Jean felt it slowly ease into something softer. His hand found its way to Yuri’s cheek, and he was almost thrown back by his height. His eyelids fluttered open, and with a final peck on his lips, Jean pulled his head back, looking at the blond. And realising they were nearly at eye-level now. 

“You were not kidding, princess.” he said impishly, grinning widely at the flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair Yuri was sporting. “You’re nearly as tall as me now.”

Yuri made a face at that, and Jean stifled a bout of laughter. But he must have felt his chest shaking with suppressed laughter, because Yuri’s eyes narrowed. It would have been an impressive glare if his lips were not pulled into a genuine smile. 

“Did I touch a sore spot?” he teased with a singsong voice.

“Fuck off, idiot.” Yuri spat without any real heat, and Jean chuckled.

“Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“About time.” Yuri grumbled in reply, making a show of taking the handle of his luggage. His other hand was free, and Jean did not think twice before pulling it into his own and tangling their fingers with a squeeze.

Yuri squeezed back.

And they were off.

 

Traffic was a nightmare. They had been stuck on the same fucking mile of road for the past twenty minutes and judging by the sluggish movement of the cars around them, it was going to be a long drive to the bed and breakfast where Yuri had booked a room the evening before. Jean was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, matching the beat of the music which was playing lightly from the radio. Yuri silently observed him, wondering at the strangeness of the situation. 

Just yesterday he had been angrily lashing at everyone and their mother, deep in the throes of frustration because nothing seemed to be going his way. And now he was in a car with Jean, listening to music and rolling his eyes just as “Theme of King JJ” started playing.

“If you start singing along I’m jumping out of this car.” he threatened, eliciting a loud bout of laughter from the latter. 

As the silence they had fallen in after walking out of the airport was broken Yuri realised it had not been exactly as comfortable as it had seemed.

“Hey, idiot.” he barked, getting Jean’s attention, then with way less bravado he muttered “You okay with me being here?”

Jean blinked, looking away from the barely moving traffic and gazing into Yuri’s eyes. He looked about to protest, but then he sighed, running his fingers through his hair.

“I didn’t expect it.” he said, glancing at the traffic before looking back at Yuri “But I’m really happy you’re here. I mean, I was planning to fly to Russia...”  

“You were going to come visit?” Yuri deadpanned stupidly, feeling his eyebrows knit into a frown

“Yeah, though I  _ was _ going to tell you beforehand.” Jean said teasingly “Yesterday maman said she’d help to try clear my schedule a bit so I could come and see you. I guess you beat me to it.”

“I always beat you.” Yuri said dryly and Jean laughed, lifting an eyebrow

“I seem to recall a couple of gold medals I won two seasons ago. Against you,  _ ma princesse _ .” he jabbed.

“Living on old glories. You’re starting to sound like the old man.” Yuri bit back.

“Nikiforov?” Jean asked.

“The one and only.” he spat back, then with a shake of head which loosened a couple of blond strands  “Did I tell you that the moron and his piggy are still barely talking?”

“Katsuki is still upset about his retirement?” Jean asked, finally getting the car into gear once again and moving, albeit slowly.

“They’re both fucking morons.” Yuri said in lieu of a reply. 

Jean was about to tease him on how much he cared about the two skaters, but he knew it would only irk Yuri. 

There was a strange kind of connection between the three of them, more and less than friendship at the same time. He had not seen them enough to be able to judge, but from the fleeting interactions with the trio it had been obvious Katsuki and Nikiforov were very important to Yuri. Even if he was wont to admit it.

He let himself drift with those thoughts, trying to ignore all the questions that he was fully aware it was better to get an answer sooner or later. 

But like the proverbial pink elephants, the thought took root and he sighed.

“How long are you planning to stay?” he asked at last.

“I don’t know. A week I guess?” Yuri answered with a shrug as if it were the most natural thing in the world to cross four thousand miles out of the blue. He must have made a face because Yuri asked “What?”

“You’re very chill about this.” he commented with a shrug.

“It’s no big deal. Two years ago I flew to Japan because Victor had fucking left before he choreographed my short program.” Yuri said calmly.

“I didn’t know that.” he said with a disbelieving smile, feeling his eyebrows lift into the line of his hair “Weren’t you like  _ fifteen _ ?”

“Yep. Yakov was pissed off.” Yuri replied with a smirk “But I did get my short program.”

Jean opened his mouth to ask how Yakov was taking Yuri’s latest trip, but the atmosphere was so light he did not want to put a foot in his mouth and ruin it. 

It was strange for Jean to bite his tongue. Normally he spoke whatever crossed his mind, no filter whatsoever. But the more time he spent with Yuri the more he learned to measure his words. Because while most people just shrugged his words off, Yuri didn’t. 

So Jean did not ask how Yuri’s family took his travelling habits.

Instead he gave him a cocky grin and pressed the back button on the player until “Theme of King JJ” was on once again. And this time he sung along.

Yuri groaned. 

But his eyes were dancing with mirth.

 

The sun had long since disappeared, giving way to a balmy summer night. Yuri and Jean strolled into Yuri’s room at the bed and breakfast, pulling his luggage. After driving away from the airport and parking Jean’s car, they had taken their time lazing around Montreal, and eating. Yuri had been famished. Airplane food left a lot to be desired, and it had been amazing to bite into food that actually tasted like something.

All in all it had been such an easy afternoon Yuri was halfway waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

He had grown so used to the constant tension that had accompanied him in the past weeks that it was terribly strange to have nothing pressing on him. All the disjointed parts of his life were back in Saint Petersburg. Here there was only Jean, who was looking at him with a thoughtful expression that made him look less goofy than usual.

“I have to be at the rink in the morning.” he said reluctantly, once Yuri’s luggage had been settled “I should get going. It’ll take me awhile to get back home”

“You can spend the night.” Yuri told him with a small shrug, plugging the charger in his dead phone, and trying not to blush as he remembered how good it had been to fall asleep on Jean’s chest back in Helsinki.

“Yuri...” Jean said slowly, a flush travelling fast into his cheeks.

“Get your mind out of the fucking gutter.” Yuri barked, losing the fight against his own blush. “We can sleep. Like in Helsinki. If you want to”

His voice had turned small towards the end, and Yuri scowled at how pathetic he sounded. Jean looked at him pensively for a moment. 

And then he nodded.

“I’m gonna have to borrow some clothes though, princess.” he told him with a wink, his blue eyes dancing “Unless…”

“Fuck you Leroy.” he spat back without heat, cheeks now flaming. He busied himself with his luggage while Jean plopped down on the duvet, chuckling. “Let me get my stuff sorted first.”

By the time they were both ready for bed, Yuri was yawning. Jet lag had completely messed up his circadian rhythm, but at least it was a decent hour to go to bed, albeit earlier than usual. 

It should have been awkward, to slip into the narrow bed, and settle next to Jean. But there was something frighteningly natural about it.  

Jean’s fingers brushed some of Yuri’s hair away from his forehead. He leaned into the touch, featherlight as it was. And Jean took the invite for what it was, carding his fingers in the loose strands of hair. Yuri scooted closer, draping his arm across Jean’s chest. He could feel the fast thrum of his heartbeat through the thin layers of fabric that separated them. And it made something flutter inside his chest. 

He lifted his head and captured Jean’s lips.

They had kissed several times since Yuri had landed in Montreal that afternoon, but there was something different about this kiss. There was a freedom that the buzzing of voices and sounds and people had hindered before. A slow descent into abandon that gripped him as tight as Jean’s arms on his hair and back. 

He was losing himself in the sensations, everything merging into the now. The hard expanse of his chest against his own. The softness of his lips, the heat radiating from his body, trailing deep scorch marks in his breaths with every touch, every inch of skin that came in contact with Jean’s. 

It was not the scorching rush that had had them scrambling over to the bed back in Helsinki, and yet it felt equally dangerous. There was heat pooling inside him, a yearning that was familiar and alien to him. A strong pull that made him want more. And want it  _ now _ . 

Like in Helsinki, Yuri was close to the point of no return, clinging to the last strands of control. And not really knowing why he did. It would be so easier to relinquish it all now and then. To just let go and be swept by the tide. To see, to touch, to taste, to lose himself in that warm tan skin and hard chiselled muscles. In the softness of his hair and mouth, in the strong grip on his waist, and the low sounds that were pooling in Jean’s throat as the kiss deepened. 

He could easily lose himself in everything that was Jean. 

But like in Helsinki, Jean pulled back, face flushed and pupils blown wide. He watched him heave a couple of breaths. One of his hands trailed a caress down his face.

“We should…” 

“Sleep, yeah I know.” Yuri interjected, his own voice hoarse and echoing the crucible that simmered deep in his body. But he remembered what Jean had said back in Finland, about not wanting to rush. And for all that yearning seared through him like a burning wire, he felt relief pool in the pit of his stomach. 

It was confusing, and frustrating. But one look at the soft expression that the idiot was sporting on his stupid face made him want to take his time. 

He had always rushed into things, eager to prove everyone that he could, that there was no such a thing as an appropriate age or skillset. He could do whatever he set his mind to. 

But this, this spectrum of emotions that fanned inside his chest, this unprecedented need to get close, closer to Jean. To disappear one in the other, to erase the line where one ended and the other begun. There was nothing to prove here. There was no competition, no judgement pending. There was just the Canadian idiot sprawled next to him, sporting a contemplative look in his too blue eyes.

“What?” he asked bluntly, aiming for his trademark scathing tone but entirely failing.

“Nothing.” Jean replied, grinning “You were just deep in thought. It’s a strange look on you.”

Yuri blinked.

“There was an insult there, I’m pretty sure.” he mumbled and Jean laughed.

“You mean me implying that you never use that blond head of yours to think?” he asked Yuri cheekily and he narrowed his eyes at the Canadian who laughed again “Don’t worry princess, I’m the idiot in this relationship.”

Yuri stopped mid eyeroll, staring at Jean.

“You never…” he began before shaking his head “You said relationship. So am I your fucking boyfriend or something?”

Jean’s eyes widened, and he was looking at him with an unreadable expression. He saw his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, before catching Yuri’s fingers between his own.

“If you want to.” he told him, the waver in the voice almost imperceptible. And Yuri stared at him blankly for a moment. Was the idiot  _ insecure _ ? What the fuck.

Something must have shown on his expression because Jean’s grip slackened.

“Look, I don’t want to put pressure on you or anything.” he said with a schooled expression. He opened his mouth to say more, but Yuri gripped his hand tightly and locked their gazes.

“Of course I fucking want to.” he hissed. Jean’s eyes were wide, but he thankfully kept his stupid mouth shut. “You really are a fucking idiot.” 

And then he crashed his lips onto his.

A moment later Jean was kissing him back, and Yuri had thought there couldn’t be more, that there wasn’t much room to express more than they already had with just a kiss. But as Jean deepened the kiss, angling his head until the only thing he could feel was the warmth, and taste and smell and everything, until there was nothing but Jean, Yuri was fucking happy to be proven wrong. 

They were drowning in a stretch of timeless space, balancing on the edge of the line but never crossing it. Their hands were barely moving. And the warmth of their bodies pressed flush next to each other enveloped them tightly. And in that moment Yuri couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be anywhere else. He let himself be carried by it, even as it slowly dwindled to something softer, something safer. 

When he opened his eyes Jean was wearing a smile. Small, contented. 

Just his.

And Yuri knew every single mile he had crossed to be there had been fucking worth it.

 

Jean woke up to the blaring of his alarm. Blindly he reached for his phone on the bedside table, but his hand hit something. He blinked his eyes open, looking at the lamp which was balanced precariously on the edge of the nightstand. Right, he was in Yuri’s room. Sluggishly he switched the alarm off before reluctantly sliding out of the bed. Yuri’s arm fell off his chest and he shuffled, but didn’t wake. 

Jean stood there for a moment, observing him.

He looked so peaceful, blond hair spilling across his forehead and chest rising and falling in a quiet rhythm. Jean brushed the hair off his face. Yuri’s lips were slightly parted, and Jean had to stifle the urge to kiss him awake. He smiled, feeling his heart thrum in a steady flutter. It was as close to bliss as it could get. The early sunlight shyly filtering into the room and glimmering in Yuri’s hair. 

It was hard to believe he was really here, when less than two days before Jean had been despairing because his life seemed to have no room for occasional visits to his boyfriend’s country. 

His boyfriend.

Jean silently rolled the word on his tongue. He liked it. The sound of it, but more than that, Jean liked what it represented. The impossibly seamless way they had slotted into each other’s lives no matter how profoundly different they were. A year ago Jean could have never imagined let alone predicted his life taking such a strange turn. And yet he was here, standing in the middle of a bed and breakfast room gazing at Yuri’s sleeping form.

He could have stayed there the whole morning. But he had to train. 

With a last glance he shook his head and made his way into the bathroom. The sooner he got to the rink the sooner he could leave and spend time with Yuri.

Fifteen minutes later Jean emerged from the shower to find a groggy Russian rubbing his eyes while he yawned. 

“Your stupid alarm rang.” Yuri grumbled in irritation, and got out the bed. 

“Sorry, I forgot about the backup one.” Jean gave him a sheepish smile, trying  _ not _ to look at the sliver of skin that peeked from under the hem of Yuri’s shirt when he stretched his arms above his head. 

“Yeah, well whatever, I’m used to getting up early anyway.” Yuri replied, walking past him and into the bathroom. He pulled off his shirt and dropped it unceremoniously on the floor before he shut the door behind him.

Jean swallowed, ignoring the heat that was pooling under his skin.

The soft stream of consciousness that had washed over his mind after he had woken up was growing into something less contemplative and far more demanding. He blinked several times, trying to steer his thoughts away from what would turn into a mental trainwreck. Then he walked to the chair where he had put his clothes the night before, and he proceeded to get dressed. 

The shower was still running by the time he was done and he plopped down on the bed, taking his phone to pass the time. And keep his mind focused onto something other than the heat which was still rippling inside him. To push back the image of pale skin stretched above hard muscles. 

They had edged close to the line, the night before. And Jean had once again found it difficult to pull back. He had had to remind himself that they had time. That there was no need to rush things. 

Not when there was still so much to learn about each other. 

Like the choked sound that would escape Yuri’s lips when Jean kissed his way down his neck, or the way his short fingernails anchored themselves into Jean’s muscles. The softness of his blond hair and how silky it felt between Jean’s fingers. He was like a routine Jean had never skated before. He knew the elements, the jumps, even the music, but going on the ice and connecting the pieces together was an entirely different thing. Feeling them in his limbs, letting his body flow with the music and not having to think about each and every step he made. It took time and patience. And perseverance. 

Shaking his head from his musings, Jean turned his attention back to his phone which kept blinking silently. He slid his thumb to unlock the screen, fully expecting a text from his parents. He had not told them he would be sleeping out, but since they had not called him, he assumed they had figured it out. Still, he was sure his mother would have sent him a reminder that he had to train,  _ regardless  _ of his boyfriend’s surprise visits. 

The screen flashed to life. 

And Jean found himself frowning.

Underneath the expected text from his mother was an unusual amount of notifications. 

Jean opened the topmost one, and his frown deepened. Soon giving way to an uneasy sense of foreboding as he opened the next one. And the one after. He barely registered the sound of the bathroom door opening. The only thing he could focus on were the hundreds upon hundreds of tweets. And the vitriol in them. It was almost like the twitter storm that had raged for days after Isabella found herself a new boyfriend. Only worse. Way worse.

He kept scrolling through the tweets, unblinking. He had been angry when his fans had dragged Izzy’s name through the mud for moving on, but as he read the outrage and screams, the all caps tweets, and the unrestrained insults, Jean felt an eerie sense of detachment. Almost as if it were happening to someone else.

After all, barely minutes before he had been thinking how blissful he felt. His mind was unable to reconcile that with sucker punch of reality. 

Yuri exited the bathroom feeling much more alive than he had when he had entered it. He finished towelling his hair dry and fetched some clothes. Jean seemed completely engrossed in his phone, so Yuri felt only a light trail of flush run up his neck and into his cheeks as he quickly pulled on fresh clothes and got rid of the bathrobe. He brushed his hair and let it hang in wet tendrils down his back. It was warm enough to dry it naturally. 

Jean was still looking at his phone, a look of intense concentration on his face, that could have easily been mistaken for a glare. 

And when he plopped down on the bed next to him, Yuri noticed it  _ was  _ indeed a glare. Jean’s eyebrows were knitted into a tight frown. And he didn’t seem to register Yuri’s presence. That, above it all made him wonder what the fuck was going on.

“What is it?” he asked, trying to look at Jean’s phone, but the latter turned his head abruptly, lowering his hand in his lap. And the phone along with it. 

The expression on his face was a strange one, but Yuri knew with absolute certainty none of the emotions mixed within it were good.

“Jean.” he insisted, “What the fuck is going on?”

“The JJ girls at the airport, they took photos of us.” he replied with a seriousness that looked wrong on Jean’s usually cheerful face. 

Jean handed him his phone. And Yuri frowned. He watched the blond clench his fingers around the plastic case as he scrolled down his Twitter. His wet hair did little to conceal the redness making its way into Yuri’s cheeks. His nostrils flared, and Jean saw his lips pull into a furious sneer before a string of Russian curses escaped his lips. 

And then he was gazing into Yuri’s wild green eyes and Jean’s stomach knotted as an ugly mixture of anger and guilt. Ah, there it was. The numbness was receding, and the cracked bones of his emotions finally began to ache.

“I’m sorry.” he said, bowing his head and looking down at his hands, clenched on the fabric of his trousers. “My fans are not usually this bad, but… welI I should have known better.”

Jean didn’t know what did it. 

Maybe it was his tone, maybe he had managed to put his foot in his mouth again. Or maybe he wasn’t the only one dancing that dangerous waltz with fears. And the steel Jean saw was just the glint of Yuri’s armour. Maybe he was scared too. He didn’t know what did it, but Jean’s words did not push through with the contrition he had intended them. They bounced back from Yuri’s hard glare. And he spat

“Better than what?” eyes narrowing dangerously. Jean could only blink in confusion.

“What?” Jean asked stupidly, still dazed from the whiplash. Then his own words sunk in and he felt his arms flail as he scrambled for words “No! I didn’t mean it like that!.”

Yuri’s eyes were hard. Guarded. Jean grasped his hands, clutching them tightly.

“Look, what I meant was that I should have known better than to let the fans find out like this. Okay?” he told him, stressing the words and punctuating them with a tightening of his grip on Yuri’s hands “It’s a mess, and it’s ugly, and I hate seeing you get insulted by them. It makes me angry. And guilty. ‘Cause we could have handled this better. Maybe even avoided the drama.”

“Not fucking likely.” Yuri spat back with little heat, underlining it with an eyeroll for good measure “My fans hate you and yours are no better.”

Jean chuckled dryly, but Yuri kept talking

“Also you are a fucking  _ idiot _ , idiot. What the fuck do you feel guilty about?” he grumbled “I don’t give a single fuck about your stupid fans, you know. But I  _ do  _ care about the shit these morons write about you.” 

He shook his rapidly drying hair while he freed one of his hands. He fumbled with Jean’s phone for a moment before ordering 

“Now fucking smile.” 

And Jean had no time to frown before he heard the click of the camera. Just as Yuri gave him a peck on the cheek.

“What are you doing?” he asked him, bemused at the abrupt change of pace. 

Yuri’s eyes were glued to the screen and he gave him a simple

“Posting a selfie on Instagram.”

“I can see that.” Jean replied tartly, watching the photo. It would have been a sweet selfie if it hadn’t been for Yuri flipping off the camera.  “But why? Also that’s my account.”

Yuri sighed loudly, lifting his head.

“We’re making a fucking statement.” he told him before adjusting the filter level. “Now, help me caption it.”

Jean opened his mouth to protest but he snapped it shut a moment later, shaking his head. They had to deal with this.

_ Surprise visit from the bae <3 #skatingboyfriends #itsjjstyle _ , he typed. 

And then he pressed post.

 

The sun was shining in the mockingly clear sky. A light breeze cooling Yuri’s sweaty skin while he ran down the street. The weather was cheerful as the whole of fucking Canada, and it would have irked him on his best days. Today was not one of his best days. In fact, if he were to quantify how fucking pissed off he was at the moment, Yuri was pretty sure it was close to record breaking. 

His feet beat fast on the pavement, carrying him out of the busy streets and into quieter areas of the city. It was objectively too late to jog in the middle of the summer, but he didn’t give a fuck. It was not like he had Yakov there to scold him when his too pale skin turned into the angry shade of a sunburn. A nervous energy was coursing through him, and the thought of sitting calmly in some air-conditioned cafe or whatever made Yuri want to jump straight out of his skin. 

He wanted to punch someone. Ideally one of those dickheads who thought they had a fucking say in who Yuri or Jean chose to date. One of those creative assholes who raked their brains to be as original as possible in conveying how much they disapproved. 

A string of curses huffed out of his mouth as he exhaled mid-run.

Yuri was no stranger to being called a colourful array of insults, and he had dished his fair amount to Jean over the years, but this, this fucking joint crusade of both Jean’s and Yuri’s fans, it made his blood boil. The things Yuri had read that morning, made him angry in ways he hadn’t been for a very long time.  

He wanted to kick in the teeth every single one of them. But that was not a fucking option. Other than flipping off the whole of the fucking internet, and posting enough selfies to be as gross as Victor and Katsudon combined if necessary only to spite the fuckers, there was not much Yuri could do to to vent his anger. And if it were any other period of his stupid life Yuri would have skated out the rage, carving the ice in the traces of quad after quad, until his body shut down in defiance.

But than was not an option either.

Which left Yuri with the third best. Which was to say, less than a makeshift fucking solution. And that was running.

Not that it helped with his stupid legs which ached like a motherfucker. But at least he wasn’t embarrassing himself in front of Jean. He may be dating the idiot, and be ready to murder someone because of what people wrote on him on twitter, but he did not forget Jean  _ was  _ his fucking rival. 

So, no skating.

The sunglasses slipped down his sweaty nose, and he pushed them back. The sun was quite high in the sky and Yuri supposed it was nearing midday. He was definitely getting sunburns. But he didn’t give a fuck. 

Like he didn’t give a fuck about the several dozen texts and missed calls that littered his phone ever since he had flown out of Russia. His phone was on mute in his pocket. And Yuri couldn’t be bothered to fucking look at it. He knew he was going to call Beka, eventually. He was the only person he wanted to talk. Everyone else would just be fucking nosy. The photos that had leaked on the internet had answered the question of where Yuri was, but he could picture his teammates reactions in far too much detail to be able to delude himself that they were anything but eager to dig their teeth into some juicy gossip.

He wanted to talk to Otabek. And he would have already done so, but he also wanted to be calm enough for it. His friend did not deserve to be on the receiving end of Yuri’s anger. He needed to work it out of his system before he talked to him.

And before Jean got back from the rink.

He had managed to channel his rage into something productive that morning, flooding the internet with pictures and tweets. And even going as far as changing their relationship status on facebook, in case anyone had any fucking doubt. He had all but shouted to the internet that yes he was dating Jean Jacques fucking Leroy. And after that he had sent the idiot to the rink. Because the moron needed to train if he was going to be halfway decent competition. But chiefly because Yuri was scared he would end up lashing at Jean. They had struggled to find a balance. There was no way he was going to willingly fuck this up with his temper.

No fucking way. 

His legs were starting to ache, and Yuri scowled, slowing down his pace to a leisurely jog. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and took in his surroundings. His aimless wandering had stranded him in one of the nicer neighbourhoods of Montreal. Rows upon rows of townhouses looked peacefully at the road wedged between them. The grass on the front lawns was a dark shade of green, neatly mowed. 

There was a strange sense of order. Entirely unlike the one coming from the imposing girth of the buildings in Saint Petersburg, or the dreariness of the sovietic neighbourhoods, like the one his Grandfather lived in. Montreal looked almost welcoming. And it felt odd. It made Yuri wonder how different must have been Jean’s life from his own, growing up in a place that was nothing like Moscow or Saint Petersburg. Even the air smelled differently here. 

Yuri found himself oddly curious about it. He had never been so interested in another person to want to hear stories about their fucking childhood. When Beka mentioned bits and pieces on occasion, Yuri had never been eager to know it all, to understand where his friend came from. He only cared about who his friend was. About the things he did now. The choices he made. 

It was the present that mattered more than anything.

But as he jogged lightly down the picture perfect neighbourhood Yuri wondered if Jean had grown up in one alike it. If he had been so stupidly cheerful even when he had been two feet tall. Yuri was curious.

But even as he thought it, he felt a tendril of unease coil around the throbbing vein of curiosity. Because this was something idiots like Victor did. Or Katsudon. He was not like that. 

He was not fucking  _ sappy _ .

 

The ice was unusually cold on Jean’s skin that morning. It rapidly cooled his sweaty skin, making shivers travel down his arms and legs. Or maybe it was the anxiety. He had bottled up a hefty amount of it since that morning. Seeing those tweets had shaken him to the core, nevermind Yuri had responded with a fury that had warmed Jean deep inside.

He sighed. He was too unfocused to do more than glide around the rink. And he saw his parents frown from behind the barrier. Mél had told them about the social media mess and they had wanted to do something about it. His mother had suggested having Jean’s PR manager deal with it, but he had told them to wait. He didn’t want to blow this out of proportion. 

Yuri and him had made a statement with their posts on social media, and Jean had high hopes it would all blow over in a couple of days, like the Izzy situation had, months before. It may had twisted his guts to read the things people had written on Yuri, but he didn’t want the little time he had with Yuri to be spent dealing with publicity and social media. 

It was bad enough Jean still had a lot on his schedule and their time together was somewhat limited. 

Shaking his head, Jean worked his way through a set of compulsory figures. He tried to clear his mind. But he felt like he had been plugged into a high-voltage generator. His mind was  buzzing with too many thoughts and emotions that travelled up and down his chest.  From his stomach to his throat and back again, going through all the knots and tangles, the surprise of Yuri being there, the aftershocks of all the bottled up longing, the images of Yuri sleeping peacefully, the harsh russian slurs that he had spat after reading those tweets. 

The past twenty four hours had been a veritable rollercoaster. And Jean needed to stop and breathe. But after a sloppily executed choctaw, and a crooked figure eight, Jean shook his head in frustration and skated to the edge of the right for a break. It was useless to be on the ice if he wasn’t skating at least halfway decently.

He put the blade-guards on, and walked to the nearest bench, plopping down with a sigh. 

He pressed his knuckles on his eyes. Just yesterday he had been so happy and surprised, and now everything was turning complicated. He hated it. And his anxiety was spiking up once again. It had been quiet for quite a while, letting him work through his breakup with Izzy, and later Yuri wedging his way into his life. But under his breastbone there was a crack that was starting to widen. 

Jean exhaled, lifting up his head. His eyes met his mother’s, and she must have sensed his mood, because a moment later Nathalie was easing down on the bench next to him, handing him a bottle of water with a small smile. They didn’t speak for the longest time, and Jean appreciated her reassuring presence. 

It made his shoulders relax a notch.

“He can come skate here.” his mother said at last, breaking the silence, and when Jean turned to her with a frown she elaborated “Yuri. You can bring him here. I can’t imagine he’ll want to miss skating for, what was it, a week you said?”

“Yeah, a week.” Jean nodded with a small smile before shaking his head “I don’t think he’ll want to, though. He’s going through a growth spurt…”

“All the more reason to keep skating” Nathalie rebutted “Or have you already forgotten that season in Juniors when you grew five inches in the span of a couple of months.”

Jean winced.

“Thanks for reminding me.” he grumbled with a dry laugh “You know, I had successfully managed to repress it.”

His mother chuckled, no doubt recalling Jean’s awkward skating. And he found himself laughing along a moment later. That season had been a disaster. Jean had been like a newborn calf on the ice, spending more time with his bottom on the hard surface than on his skates. 

“Tell him to come.” Nathalie said with an air of finality, tearing him from his reminiscence. Her tone left no room for an argument, and Jean knew it was no longer an invitation, but an order.

“Sure, maman.” Jena said, feeling his shoulders shook with a chuckle. He envisioned how  _ that _ was going to fly with Yuri. 

 

Yuri stared at the rink entrance. His skates were tightly laced on his feet, and his sunburned skin felt only slightly tight under his workout clothes. After his midday jog a couple of days before, Yuri had nursed a mild sunburn. His face had taken the brunt of it, turning his lightly freckled nose into an angry shade of pink. And his arms had not fared much better. 

Jean had teased him endlessly, saying Yuri was the only person who was able to get sunburns so easily. He had scowled, telling him to fuck off in several languages, but the idiot had been merciless in his jabs. 

Shaking his head Yuri looked through the glass on the door. Jean was already on the ice, warming up. And a girl Yuri recognised as Jean’s sister was practicing spins in one corner of the rink. Jean had told him his mother had all but ordered them to come to the rink together, but Yuri had refused. 

It had taken Jean several days of nagging, before Yuri had given in. His happy expression when Yuri had finally agreed had made his heart skip several beats in a row. And made him wish he done so right away. 

But at the same time Yuri was still reluctant. He didn’t know what made him more uneasy, the thought of stepping onto the same ice as Jean while not nearly at the top of his form, or sharing the same rink with Jean’s  _ family _ . 

For all that Yuri didn’t give a fuck about people’s opinions on him by default, he couldn’t help but hate the idea that these people would dislike him. That they would see him as no more than the Russian Punk. His family was important to Jean. Yuri had known that even before befriending the idiot. And he hated to idea of disappointing him.

Squaring his shoulders, Yuri heaved a sigh and pushed the door open. 

One thing was sure, Jean’s sister liked him well enough. So there was at least a marginal chance of not fucking this up.

The cold air of the rink whipped him in the face. And some of the tension seeped away from his tendons. The ice was his home, his beginning, middle and end. As his feet brought him closer to the rink entrance, Yuri felt all the thoughts and concerns get shrugged off by the need to  _ skate _ .

“Yuri!” Jean’s voice echoed across the rink when the idiot noticed him. Yuri was  just sliding off his skate-guards and stepping on the ice, when he saw Jean launch himself across the rink, gliding to a stop next to him “You came!”

“Why the fuck are you surprised?” Yuri grumbled, failing to keep the blush from spreading on his cheeks when he saw how fucking happy Jean was “I told you I’d come.”

In lieu of a reply Jean’s grin got wider, and he caught Yuri’s gloved hand in his, and pulled him along towards the other end of the rink. Yuri was about to protest at being manhandled, but he saw where he was being led, so he just glared at the idiot.

Across the rink, blue eyes incredibly wide and mouth agape, was the mini-Leroy.

“Mél, I’d like you to meet Yuri” Jean said, making a show of presenting Yuri to his shellshocked sister who kept staring at him. Then he added “Never it be said that King JJ is a bad brother.”

And Jean’s moronic comment seemed to snap the girl out of her trance. She rolled her eyes at him with a look of mock exasperation that made Yuri smirk.

“I like you, mini-Leroy.” he decreed.

“Mini-Leroy?” Jean repeated with a huff of laughter, grinning widely. Then he added with a wink “I like it! A mini version of the King himself.”

Yuri just looked at him, wondering which of the sixteen rebuttals fitted better to this level of idiocy, but Jean’s sister saved him the effort.

“Maybe Yuri was referring to maman and dad.” she told him cheekily “They  _ are _ olympic medalist after all...”

Yuri smirked. He liked this girl better by the minute. 

“Ouch, that hurt, Mél.” Jean exclaimed, clutching his chest in mock hurt, before giving her one of his patented stupid grins “But worry not. I’m planning on adding an olympic gold to my collection next year!”

“If by gold you mean silver, idiot...” Yuri drawled, shooting Jean a challenging look.

“You’re on, princess.” Jean rebutted, his grin getting wider “But I guess we have to ensure spots on the Olympics first.”

“If your don’t earn your stupid country at least one slot in the Pyeongchang games, I’m going to kick your ass.” Yuri spat with narrowed eyes “I cannot beat you if you’re not competing, idiot, okay?”

Jean laughed squeezing his hand, and winked.

“Likewise,  _ ma princesse. _ ”

“None of you is going to qualify if you don’t start practicing, though.” the mini-Leroy observed tartly. 

Yuri had nearly forgotten she was there during his banter with Jean, and he felt mildly embarrassed at how gross they had acted.

Fuck, he wasn’t turning into Victor, was he?

“Listen to your sister, idiot.” he snarled trying to mask his awkwardness. And failing judging by the amused look Jean gave him 

He nodded, grinning. 

“I’ll finish warm ups.” he said, giving Yuri’s hand a final squeeze before letting go.

 

It had been his sister’s idea. Not that Jean had not thought about inviting Yuri over. He had even contemplated asking him to stay at his home instead of the bed and breakfast. But Jean had noticed how Yuri would tense up when he mentioned his family. And yesterday at the rink he had been uncharacteristically subdued, almost shy, in the brief interactions he had had with Jean’s parents. So he had kept quiet. He didn’t like seeing him out of his comfort zone. 

But when Mél had suggested Yuri come and visit so he can see actual proof of the infamous poster in Jean’s room, Yuri had agreed, pleasantly surprising him, So Jean hadn’t thought much about it. 

Not until they had sat down in Jean’s car and Yuri had not complained about Jean’s music.

“You can connect your phone if you want.” he offered “We can listen to your music.”

“Whatever.” Yuri replied, but his fingers slid over his phone screen, and a moment later there was angry rock blaring through the speakers. Jean winced, lowering the volume a bit. And caught Yuri’s eyeroll. 

It was a bit of a drive to Jean’s home, especially with the traffic. He hoped the rest of Yuri’s playlist was not so aggressive on his eardrums. 

It was a vain hope, though. He snorted a dry chuckle and shifted into gear. 

Twenty minutes and six metal songs later the car fell suddenly silent. He turned to Yuri with a frown, just as the soft sound of violins hummed in the background. His eyebrows rose, especially when Yuri did not skip it.

“What is this?” he asked, terribly curious as the piece developed, never losing its softness.

“Something Beka sent me.” Yuri told him “Back after the GPF I considered it for my free skate. But then you sent me your song.” he finished with a shrug.

“Why don’t you use it for the short?” he asked, Yuri didn’t reply, but he appeared deep in thought.

“I actually could.” he said slowly “Once I solve the issue of not having a fucking coach. It’s not like I can’t do the choreography on my own.”

“Why not?” Jean asked “Hasn’t Victor always done them by himself?”

“I’m not the fucking old man.” Yuri rebutted “And it’s not like you do your own fucking choreographies.”

“No, my mum does it for me.” he said, keeping his eyes on the road “Look, I’m just trying to be helpful here, yeah? I want to see you compete, Yuri.”

“Don’t go sappy on me.” Yuri snapped and Jean huffed a laugh

“Fine, princess.” he said with a grin “I want to wipe the ice with you at both the NHK and the GPF, and I’ll be damned if I don’t kick your ass at Worlds!”

“Much better” Yuri nodded, with a lopsided smirk. 

 

Jean’s home was the fucking epitome of picket fence idyll. With a dog to boot. Yuri shouldn’t have been surprised, what with the whole disgustingly picture perfect family Jean had. But as he walked into the cosy living room, with dozens of pictures of the Leroys lining the walls, and a hand-knit throw blanket artfully tucked in the corner of the sofa, Yuri felt his eyebrows rise.

It couldn’t be fucking real. People didn’t live like  _ that _ . Those things belonged in shitty american sit-coms and rom-coms. Not in real life. 

And yet the golden ball of canine fluff currently resting on Yuri’s feet, felt very real, weight and all.

Sitting on the edge of the sofa and scratching the dog behind the ears, Yuri had to acknowledge he was out of his fucking depth. Even Katsudon’s Japanese home where people spoke a language he didn’t understand, and had the oddest habits, like being aghast when Yuri had added a spoonful of jam to his tea, well even  _ that _ had felt more familiar that everything Leroy. Yuri knew it was fucked up when Jean with all his quirks and idiosyncrasies was the most relatable of the bunch. 

He drifted through the compulsory small-talk with Jean’s parents, trying to focus on limiting his normally colourful vocabulary. And nodding and humming when it was appropriate, while this strange universe unfolded around him. He sipped on his iced tea, while he answered questions about Russia, feeling like he was being interviewed, and yet unable to summon the anger that normally made him get through the interactions with the press.

Jean was in no better situation, but those were his parents, this alien world was his home, so he glided through the conversation with ease.

Rescue came in the form of a mini version of the mini-Leroy. A micro-Leroy, Yuri dubbed the boy, who he learned a moment later was Tommy, Jean’s younger brother. The one who wanted to switch to hockey, if Yuri remembered correctly what Jean had told him about the kid.

Tommy, bless his fucking soul, suggested that Yuri should sign the posters mini-Leroy had on her wall. The girl blushed a shade of red that made Katsudon’s blushes look like nothing, but there had been a glint in her eyes. The Yuri Angel glint. And Yuri almost recoiled. He didn’t like his fans on the best days, and after the whole shitstorm on twitter, he had no good words to spare. 

But Mélanie was different from the rest of them. 

Jean had told him the girl had started a veritable war over the social networks. Yuri had only fleetingly checked, but he did notice several familiar handles amongst the people who joined the girl in her self-proclaimed mission. Hashtag iheartpliroy was starting to trend on Twitter, and while Yuri didn’t like other people fighting his battles, it did give him a strange sense of satisfaction to see his and Jean’s fans brought a couple of pegs lower. 

Besides, signing her posters was salvation from the extremely awkward situation he was in. 

 

It was their fifth night. Only one more before Yuri left. The thought flared through Jean’s mind, rocking him out of the cocoon of calm he had wrapped himself in as he watched Yuri start to fall asleep curled next to him. He inhaled sharply, and the motion must had registered with the blond, because a moment later he was lifting his head from the pillow and giving him a half-lidded inquisitive look.

Jean brushed his hair off his forehead, trying to brush the anxiety off. But Yuri’s eyes only filled with wakefulness, and Jean found himself pinned by his gaze.

“What?” he croaked, perching his upper body on his elbow.

“It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.” Jean tried, but Yuri gave him an irritated eyeroll “Okay, fine.” he sighed “I just remembered that you’re leaving in less than two days.”

Yuri’s lips pulled into a grimace.

“I don’t like it either.” he said, lowering his gaze and fiddling with the hem of the sheet they were covered with “I almost extended it to a week more. But I need to get back on the ice. I want to try and do this short program. And I need to fucking solve the coach issue. Skate Canada is too close to be fucking around.”

“I know.” Jean said dejectedly, trailing his fingers on Yuri’s cheek, and his eyelids fluttered closed “I hope I’ll manage to come visit you before the season starts.”

Yuri relaxed in the caress, and Jean’s heart squeezed. He leaned forward and pressed a light kiss on Yuri’s mouth. The butterfly touch lasted barely more than a second. Then Jean’s lips were being claimed by Yuri’s, and there was an insistence that pulled at the deep roots of the longing that didn’t seem to ever abandon them. 

Jean followed his lead, diving into the kiss with no restraint. 

He only had two more days of this, of waking up next to Yuri, of watching his green eyes flash in amusement, and fury, and joy, and everything in between. Of feeling the sharpness of Yuri’s hipbone press against him as they slotted like matching puzzle pieces, hovering next to the ever-blurring line in the sand. As their hands moved with growing confidence over all the ridges and planes of their bodies. 

Yuri’s hands were working their way up his shirt, and his fingers were so warm. Soft and strong at the same time. Jean rolled on his side, giving him easier access, while his own hands roamed over the ridges of Yuri’s spine. He could lose himself in this. He could drown in Yuri and never emerge. And it would be bliss. 

There was heat pooling low inside him. Their bodies were so close, and Jean ached to feel more. Even as his hands traced the paths of Yuri’s skin, feeling every inch of contact almost scorchingly, Jean wanted more. He wanted to pull that t-shirt off and see him, kiss the trail of his flush down to chest, and lower, lower. Yuri’s nails were almost digging in the muscles of his back, and it was hard not to roll him on his back and plunge deeper into the kiss. So he broke away from it, pulling his head back. 

Only for Yuri’s lips to move down his neck. And with a shove on his shoulders, roll them over until Yuri was straddling him, hands still tucked under Jean’s shirt, and leaving trails of fire on his chest.

“Yuri…” his voice was hoarse, and nearly broke on the last syllable when Yuri’s teeth found their way to his neck “I…”

It was hard,  _ he  _ was hard, and there was only a sliver of self-control left.

Then Yuri hissed

“Shut up.” and yanked his shirt off. 

There was a moment of breathlessness where the world seemed to drive to a halt, and  all he could do was watch the pale freckled skin of Yuri’s shoulders, and the flush that trailed from his neck all the way to his breastbone. There were locks of golden hair spilling over his collarbone, and his lips were bruised red. He was heaving his breaths, and looking at Jean with his pupils blown wide. 

Jean opened his mouth to speak, but Yuri suddenly dove in for a searing kiss. 

And all the restraint he had exercised on himself evaporated like droplets of water over open flame. His hands were on Yuri’s chest. On his back. Everywhere. Touching, scraping, exploring. With a quick motion he flipped them over, and his mouth followed where his hands had been, mapping Yuri’s body with his lips. Listening to the low sounds pooling in Yuri’ throat. And feeling them sear through him, reverberating deep inside him. 

And when Yuri’s hands found their way into his hair and he moaned a hoarse

“Please.” 

Jean let himself go.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to [NinjaMatty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NinjaMatty/pseuds/NinjaMatty) for the precious info on Canada.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over a month to update. I'm so sorry! I feel so terrible to keep you all waiting, especially when so many of you sent me AMAZING comments. But well, it is what it is.  
> I hope this chapter will suffice as an apology.  
> <3

_“I know flowers shine stronger_ _  
_ _than the sun”_

_E. Adnan, The Spring Flowers Own_

 

The morning was bright and clear. A light breeze carried the ripe smell of the river as Yuri made his way towards the rink. He had flown back to Saint Petersburg the evening before, carrying all the weight of a long sleepless flight on his shoulders. His mood had only grown darker as the familiar sight of the milky white night sky had reminded him he was back home. Yuri’s lips twisted into a scowl as he trudged forward. For all that he liked Saint Petersburg, he couldn’t shake away the permeating feeling of absence that crawled under his skin.

He had not realised how light he had felt in Montreal until he had hailed a cab at the airport and given Lilia’s address to the cabbie. Her pristine apartment with its polished antiques furniture and thick brocade curtains had greeted him sternly, only the faint notes of Shostakovich playing from her equally posh gramophone. The former ballerina had not scolded him for disappearing for a week without any notice. A lazy look on her pinched face had been the only acknowledgement he had gotten upon his return. And his mood had plummeted further down.

Yuri had wished in that moment that his stay in Canada could have been indefinite. As he had laid in his bed, trying and failing to fall asleep, he had allowed his mind to imagine it. To picture himself living there, where the sun set properly during the summer and people did not swear in harsh Russian, where he could see Jean whenever he wanted and he got to tease the idiot with the mini-Leroy. Where there was no long shadow of Yuri’s weaknesses looming above him.

He had allowed himself to imagine, but even as he had pictured the disgustingly sappy scenario, Yuri had known it was nothing more than a daydream. He could not run away from all the jagged edges that refused to fall fully into place inside him. They would follow him wherever he went. Dreams were useless unless he was ready to sweat and bleed for them. And many were just too far out of reach to even try. Yuri had to make good with what he could do.

Even if he had to rip the flutter of hope from his chest with his bare hands.

It was pointless to imagine things he could not achieve. This was his home. His life. And even if he did miss Jean with a clawing longing that only grew worse with every reminiscence of how it had been a little over a day since he had gazed in those stupidly bright eyes of his and kissed him goodbye, there was nothing to do but wait. In a few weeks the idiot would come and visit him for an extended weekend, and Yuri curbed the disappointment, reminding himself it was the best they could do. Daydreams were for fools like Victor, who had pined for months after the Sochi banquet, or Georgi who had milked his heartbreak for two fucking seasons. Yuri had not gotten where he was by allowing himself to wish impossible things.

He would make do.

With a shake of his head he adjusted the sunglasses on his nose and increased his pace. It didn’t take him long to reach the shade of the large complex of the skating rink, the tall trees swaying in the light breeze. Yuri had no time for idle thoughts. Before leaving the bliss of Montreal he had promised himself he would address the issue of his coaching as soon as he got back to Russia. And he would. He had wasted enough time as it was.

There was apprehension knotting in his shoulders, but he ascended the stairs and pushed the door open. The familiar sound of Yakov’s booming voice filtered through the hallways. The sound of music ricocheted from the tall ceiling while he trudged towards the rink, his bag still slung over his shoulder. He stopped for half a heartbeat in front of the doors. Then, pulling his lips into a scowl Yuri pushed them open and stepped in the cold air of the practice rink.

Georgi was rising out of a sit spin while Yakov yelled his instructions to Mila who was warming up in a corner. Towards the back Katsudon was stretching, Victor nowhere in sight. The melancholic notes of Georgi’s short program were dripping from the loudspeakers, and the familiarity of the sight was a sharp contrast with the longing Yuri had been cradling close to his heart. In that suspended moment he felt torn between the lingering warmth of the week he had spent in Montreal and the coldness of _his_ rink. Not his home, no, but close enough.

His heart was beating loudly in his ears, and there was a bitter taste in his mouth. But Yuri barely had the time to register it all before a loud shriek of

“Yuratchka!!!” tore through the air, and everyone stopped in their tracks while Mila flung herself across the ice, and towards him.

Georgi looked at him with a wide-eyed expression that could have been relief, and Katsudon was smiling in what was _definitely_ relief. Only Yakov did not appear to be fazed in the slightest. Not that it surprised him, Lilia must had no doubt informed his coach of Yuri’s return. Yakov’s wrinkled face was stony, but Yuri could see the vein throbbing on his forehead, the light flush of a barely restrained scolding. It was almost a relief to know Yakov was on the verge of shouting. It had been way too long since the last time his coach had behaved normally, giving Yuri a piece of his mind.

The elderly coach strode towards him and Yuri inhaled, bracing himself for the yelling that was about to ensue.

But when Yakov came near him, he only grunted a clipped

“Come along.” and stalked out of the rink, stopping by the door for a moment to shout towards the other skaters “Tell Vitya to come to my office. And no slacking off.”

Five minutes later Yuri was slumped in a chair, looking at his coach’s unreadable expression. Yakov ran his finger through the long strands of hair which waved down from the back of his head. There was something in his hard look that made Yuri’s words stick behind his teeth, and he curled his lip, looking idly at the countless photographs lining the walls.

Black and white ones, faded colour pictures of old figure skating champions. Some of them showed a very young Yakov with medals around his neck and the same harsh expression he still wore. Others, far more numerous, were newer. Mila, Georgi, pair skaters who had retired when Yuri had been still a Novice, ice dancers grinning on the podium. Anya and her partner at Worlds. And then countless photos of Victor’s victories. Long haired, short-haired. Junior, Senior. And then the latest from the GPF in Marseille, with Yuri to his left, staring impassively at the camera.

Yuri could barely see it from where he was sitting on the chair, but he knew the look he had worn that day. He had seen enough pictures of it to leave an impression on the back of his eyelids and be reminded of how he had broken down that day. Of how everything had started to unravel in Marseille. And how it had lead him to be there, in Yakov office, waiting for Victor for some unfathomable reason, but in truth just trying to gather his courage to bring up the sore subject of his coaching to Yakov.

A perfunctory knock on the door tore him from his thoughts. A moment later Victor was strolling in, filling the room with his larger than life presence, and eliciting an eyeroll from Yuri. He was positive the now former skater did it entirely on purpose.

Victor’s mouth was pulled into his stupid heart-shaped grin. But Yuri did not miss the calculating look in his azure eyes, and he straightened his spine on instinct, bracing himself for whatever nonsense the old man must had concocted.

“Welcome back, Yurio!” he said cheerfully, edging closer and leaning on Yakov’s desk “How was Canada?” the tone was light enough, but Yuri could feel the curiosity dripping from his words. And it reminded him that he was going to have to deal with his teammates being obnoxious about his now public relationship with Jean.

The thought distracted him for a moment, and he set aside the worry Victor’s plotting look had settled at the base of his spine.

He opened his mouth to reply, but Victor butted in.

“Well, nevermind, you’ll tell us later.” he dismissed him, and Yuri glared at the former skater. But annoyance was short lived. Because a moment later Victor happily declared ”I will be coaching you next season! Are you excited?”

And Yuri just blinked.

What the _fuck_?

 

The blearing of his phone startled Jean awake. He blinked twice, disoriented, before his hand closed around his phone on the bedside table. The light flashing from the screen was blinding in the darkness of his bedroom, and he squinted as he tried to read the name on it. Yuri.

He slid his thumb to take the call, suddenly wide awake.

“Yuri? What’s happened?” he asked without preamble, voice still hoarse from sleep, but adrenaline already pooling in his limbs. Yuri wouldn’t call him in the middle of the night unless something was amiss.

_“Yakov is no longer coaching me.”_ Yuri replied in a clipped voice, foregoing any greeting.

Jean’s eyes flew wide open.

“What? How? I mean, weren’t you going to talk to him…” he rambled, sleepiness falling off of him as worry and confusion washed over him like the cold jet of a shower, but Yuri interrupted him.

_“He stepped out.”_ came the clipped explanation, but before Jean could say anything Yuri added _“Victor wants to coach me in his stead.”_

“Really?” Jean sat up in his bed, looking at the darkness. “Well, that’s good, right? Wasn’t it something you were considering as an option?”

_“No. That was something_ you _considered an option.”_ Yuri bit back, and Jean shook his head in silent exasperation.

“You accepted, I hope?” he asked, feeling relief and a tinge of playfulness replace the worry that had startled him awake.

_“Of course I accepted, I’m not an idiot.”_ Yuri spat back with his usual callousness which made Jean grin.

“No, you’re not. That’s my honorific, _ma princesse._ ” Jean threw back teasingly, feeling a yawn work its way through his body.

_“Fuck off.”_

“Gladly.” he told him with a chuckle “It’s like 4 am here, and you know I need my beauty sleep.” He could almost hear Yuri’s eyeroll, but he did not bit back anything. And that spoke volumes on how shocked he still was at the turn of events “Catch you later, though. At the usual time?”

_“Yeah, I’ll text you on lunch break”_

“Miss you, princess.”

_“Don’t be gross.”_ Yuri grumbled _“_ Spokoynoy nochi, _idiot.”_

 

The warm air breezed from the open window, moving the sheer curtains. Yuri wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was tired and thirsty, and he hadn’t even got to practice today. Victor had given him a day off from the rink to pack. The fact he was Yuri’s coach now had not yet entirely sunk in, but ever since he had returned from Montreal everything had been so out of joint Yuri had no choice but go with the flow. Which is how he had ended up filling cardboard boxes on one of the hottest days in Saint Petersburg.

Sitting on his hunches he taped the last box and pushed it out of the way. Yuri had not realised he had accumulated such a pile of belongings since he had moved into Lilia’s place two years before.

He had started packing early in the morning, hoping to be able to get at least some workout done before supper, but in the end it had taken Yuri the better part of a day off to pack everything up and wait for Mila to give him a ride to his new living quarters. The redhead had offered to help him, but Yuri knew it was just an excuse to dig for information about his relationship with Jean, so he had declined. Having to sit for half an hour in a car with her was going to be bad enough.

He had successfully managed to evade her inquisition in the past week, what with the unexpected change of coaches and the sudden need for Yuri to find a place of his own now that Lilia was no longer his coach. Which was the main reason why Yuri was going through the painstaking process of moving.

Yakov had mentioned it as an afterthought, but Yuri had not been surprised that with Victor taking over the duty as Yuri’s coach, Lilia would step back. She was still going to give him ballet lessons, but he was no longer her project.

But expected as it had been, Yuri didn’t know how he felt about it.

There was a bitter taste on his mouth when he thought about the ease with which she was dismissing him. Almost as if the past two years had meant nothing for her. That living under the same roof, sharing meals, teaching him how to braid his hair, and forcing some unwilling civility into him had been something meaningless like the perfunctory way she read the morning paper.

He did not like the heavy drop of his stomach at the thought, but he thankfully hadn’t had enough time to ponder it in the rush.

Mila had told him a studio apartment in her building had been recently vacated, and so Yuri had reluctantly agreed to move out of Lilia’s and become Mila’s neighbour. His newly appointed coach had been happy, since it would mean someone would be there to keep an eye on Yuri. Not that he needed anyone to do that. He was seventeen years old, not seven. And Mila was hardly a responsible adult. But the rent was cheap enough to not make a big dent in his budget, and he admitted it was convenient to have someone drive him to the rink every morning instead of having to rely on public transport.

Besides, Jean had been very happy to learn Yuri was going to be living on his own. And it had belatedly occurred to him that this meant his boyfriend could stay at his place when he finally managed to fly to Saint Petersburg. And not just that, but the next time he went to Moscow he could fetch Shapka back and bring her home with him. The landlord was fine with small pets. And even if he wasn’t Yuri was not past sneaking his cat into the apartment if he had to.

It had done a lot in improving Yuri’s overall mood. But he still felt suspended in this strange alternate reality. Everything was changing so fast his head was spinning, and he had this horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that something would eventually go terribly wrong. Maybe it was foreshadowing, or maybe it was just the deeply etched fears he seemed unable to be rid of no matter what, the stupid weakness that had ruined everything with his now former coaches. He didn’t know. But a small part of him was ready for the other shoe to drop.

After all it was all too easy.

Too good.

 

The early morning air was pleasantly cool. The faint smell of dew filled Jean’s lungs as he jogged through the park. A lively song was playing through his headphones, its beat in synch with the pounding of Jean’s feet on the gravel. The sun had not yet fully risen above the horizon, and Montreal had been still asleep when Jean had left his home to go on a long morning run.

July had started with a heat wave that made anything other than skating an unpleasant experience. The hours spent in the blissful chill of the rink were heaven sent. His routines were coming along nicely and he even found time to perfect his performance for the ice show he would be doing in August. It was a charity event Jean had taken part for five years in a row. Yuri had mentioned the possibility of coming to Montreal to see him, and it made him all the more happier for it.

During the week Yuri had spent in Montreal they had managed to outline a rough plan for seeing each other during the rest of the off season. Jean was going to fly to Saint Petersburg for his birthday, and then three weeks later, Yuri would come to Canada. This time he had even cleared it with his coach, which was a relief. He loved spending time with his boyfriend, but not at the expense of Yuri’s skating.

Smiling to himself, Jean jogged on, as the city slowly woke up. Several cars lazily passed him by in the pale light of dawn, headlights blindingly white. Things were slowly starting to fall into place, and it was a good feeling that fuelled his optimism. The past year had been filled with a lot of struggle and changes he had not been happy to embrace. But it had led him to this. To Yuri and a silver at Worlds that meant more than any gold he had won in his career so far. It had made him reach new depths in the way he skated his routines. It had not been an easy road, but Jean had no regrets.

And lungs filled with optimism, it gave him the drive to push forwards, to new heights, new records, and hopefully many many treasured memories.

His feet kept their pace while Montreal woke up, and Jean greeted it with a smile.

 

The cold air of the rink whipped through Yuri’s hair, damp with sweat. He gained speed and entered a combination spin, while the music played in the background. He did a sloppy exit, but trudged forward, moving in rockers, then choctaws. All the while the remixed sound of violins echoed in the busy rink.

The music trailed to an end with Yuri exiting a layback spin. His chest heaved while he moved towards the barrier to grab some water. Victor extended him a bottle, lips pursed in thought. And Yuri lifted an eyebrow but bit back the cutting remark. Working with Victor was different. Yuri had trained at the same rink with him for years, and had witnessed first-hand his coaching technique, or lack thereof. But being his student was something else entirely. There were no yelling, no scolding, just candid observations that cut straight to the point, making Yuri scowl but follow them nonetheless.

They were working on Yuri short program. He had suggested the song Beka had remixed, and Victor had elected to run with it, lifting his index to his lips in contemplation. Yuri could have had Victor come up with a choreography, but the conversation he had had with Jean back in Montreal had stuck with him, and he wanted to at least give a try at building his own routine. Which Victor had been more than happy to do.

“A camel spin doesn’t work there.” Victor commented, eyes still trained on the ice “That second crescendo is better suited to a step sequence.”

Yuri nodded, waiting for more but Victor stayed silent. He grimaced roughly giving the empty bottle back to his coach and gliding towards the centre of the rink. He wished Victor would be more helpful, or at least happier with the work Yuri had done so far. But while he had only made small corrections of Yuri’s choreography, he didn’t appear enthusiastic about it either.

He would have to do better.

But how? The outline he had made seemed solid enough to him, it played on his strengths, his flexibility, his lightness on the ice, and the newfound height he could reach in his jumps now that his growth spurt had stopped and his muscles had adjusted. It was a gold winning routine on the technical side. He had even run the numbers to be sure.

But it was not a surprising one, was it? Victor’s choreography for the free was on an entirely different level, and when Yuri compared the short to it, his choreography looked boring.

His scowl deepened as the music started and Yuri began running through the short one more time. He would have to improve it. To make it a match to the free.

And he would.

Yuri was never one to back off from a challenge, after all.

 

The evening was pleasant. A light breeze was ruffling the leaves of the trees in the garden. The dimming sunlight painted soft streaks of orange on the house, while dusk swallowed the shadows, slowly ending a tiring day of training. Jean stretched his arms above his head, sitting in the garden with his headphones on. He was listening to the new album he had recorded with the band, letting his thoughts drift.

A smile tugged at his lips while the arranged version of his short program music played through the headphones. It was a wistful piece, filled with a razor sharp thread of longing, but as he listened to it with critical detachment he could see the more subtle notes of everything else he had been feeling when he composed it. The breathless wonder, the bubbling of hope, and the subtle vulnerability that still laced everything Jean felt.

Everything he had composed in the past months was laced with the golden threads of Yuri’s hair fanning on the pillow in Helsinki, and the vibrant green of his eyes. Maybe he was ridiculous, maybe his sister was right to tease him, but just the thought of him made Jean’s heart start to pound, and memories echo in the forefront of his mind, pulling at his lips until he was grinning like an idiot.

He closed his eyes, listening to the ending notes of the song, while he softly recalled the memories of the week Yuri had spent in Montreal. Of the ease with which they had set a routine. Of how Yuri had seamlessly inserted himself in Jean’s life, and for seven days he had allowed himself to imagine how it would be if they could always have that. How could it be to be able to see him whenever he wanted, to be able to walk hand in hand down the streets of his hometown, like they had done. To be teased whenever a group of fans stopped him and he pulled his persona on, winking, grinning and crossing his arms in his trademark pose. To go to a cinema to watch a movie together, but ending up watching Yuri’s expressions. The rise of his eyebrows, the exasperated sneers, the eyerolls, the barely restrained groans of disbelief at anything remotely sappy. Jean had vowed to try and watch a romantic comedy with Yuri just for the sake of seeing his reactions to it.

He chuckled at the thought, his grin growing wider with mischief. It would be priceless. He could already picture the abject horror and gagging noises. Yuri’s rejection of anything vaguely sentimental amused Jean to no end. In the week they had spent in Montreal Jean had grown acquainted with the small flickers of emotion in Yuri’s green eyes that contradicted his words. He never allowed himself to be vulnerable, and the glimpses Jean caught vere precious. A privilege.

That week had been special, and Jean couldn’t wait to fly to Saint Petersburg and see him again. Sneak his arms around him and kiss him senseless, to enjoy his birthday doing whatever silly thing came to their mind. To add hundreds of photos to the gallery on his phone like they had done in Montreal.

Grinning Jean pulled his phone from his pocket. He had already lost count of how many times he had stared at the selfies and photos they had taken. Some beautiful, other hilariously bad. Jean had not deleted a single one. He liked them all, even the one where Yuri was glaring at him through the messy knots of his hair early in the morning.

He unlocked the screen, and blinked at the absence of notifications on his screen. He shook his head, opening the gallery. Even after weeks of being logged off from his social media it still felt odd to see his screen staring blankly at him. He couldn’t remember a time it had happened before. But strange as it was, Jean knew it was for the best.

It had been Yuri’s idea. With the whole mess on the social networks regarding Yuri and him becoming tiring, Yuri had suggested they simply log out of their respective social media accounts and wait for the whole thing to calm down. And Jean had readily agreed. There were only so many times he could read hateful tweets and insults before it started eating at him.

Besides, the people who mattered had Jean’s number. They could always text him.

But odd as it was, it also felt strangely refreshing.

Smiling, Jean scrolled through gallery, and tapped on the first photo they had taken in Montreal. The one Yuri had posted on instagram.

And he chuckled fondly.

 

The door slammed shut. Yuri stomped his way out of the rink, fuming. The evening air was warm and the sky was dimly lit by the sunlight which lingered above the horizon. The view from atop the stairs was instagram worthy, but Yuri did not give a single fuck at the moment. He plopped down on the stairs, waiting for Mila to finish with her own training and drive him home. He was pissed off. Very much so, and it was all Victor’s fault.

Yuri had known Victor could be frustrating at times, but in the relief of having a coach once again, and working on his new routines, he might had forgotten just how incredibly irritating the former Living Legend could be. They were still polishing Yuri’s choreography for the short program. Yuri knew Victor would want to adjust some stuff, after all this was the first time Yuri had actually done a choreography for a routine. The exhibition skates he had done in the past years hardly counted. They were meant to be flashy. And shocking, like Welcome To The Madness had been. A serious program needed far more delicacy and flow.

It had come as no surprise that Victor would not be happy with what Yuri had come up with. But he had not counted on Victor being his usual annoying self. Because not only the great Victor Nikiforov pouted at the umptenth version of the routine Yuri had choreographed, but he was also unable to use words like the rest of the fucking world! How in the name of fuck was Yuri supposed to understand his stupid gestures and shrugs when he explained to him what the routine was missing?

It was not _surprising_. What the fuck did Victor want him to do. He had changed the whole fucking composition, one piece at a time. Yuri had even forgone his signature jump, exchanging the Salchow for a quad loop. The jump which had been Lee’s signature one, and only three other skaters had managed to land in competition.

But Victor had not been impressed, only humming with that annoying index finger pressed to his lips.

He gnashed his teeth. He was angry, tired and frustrated. And while he knew he could simply let Victor do the choreography himself, Yuri didn’t want to. He _wanted_ to do this. To prove to himself and the rest of the world that he was not a fucking _mediocre_ skater like Victor had called him back in Japan when he had argued about being assigned Agape for the Onsen on Ice. He was not fucking average, he had outscored Victor. He had won the Grand Prix on his senior debut. Yuri was anything but average.

He was a monster with the eyes of a soldier, the Ice Tiger. He was better than Victor.

But Victor had never broken down, had he? He had not shown the whole world his weakness. He had not disappointed Yakov to the point of being rejected. Even when he had run off to play coach to Katsudon, Yakov had readily accepted him back into the fold after a year of hiatus.

Victor had never fucked up as badly as Yuri.  

The sound of the door opening startled him from his thoughts, but he did not turn his head, staring at worn edges of his trainers.

“Yurio?” it was Katsudon. Great, just what he needed. He gritted his teeth, ignoring him. Maybe he would go away, and Yuri could fume in peace until he had to deal with Mila’s incessant chatter. It was a twenty minutes ride to their tenement, but the hag could make it look endless.

With the corner of the eye, Yuri saw the Japanese sit down on the stair next to him, and he stifled a groan.

“What do you want, Katsudon?” he snarled, glaring at the older skater. Yuuri fumbled with his hands, looking uncomfortable. Yuri rolled his eyes “Spit it out, I don’t have all day!”

“I know Victor can be a lot.” Yuuri said quietly “He sometimes forget people can’t read his mind.”

“That’s a fucking understatement.” Yuri snorted.

“When.. When Yakov asked him to coach you, he wasn’t sure, you know?” he said carefully, and Yuri must had made a face because Yuuri rose his hands, flailing as he quickly added “Not because you’re not a good enough! No, Victor was not sure _he_ could be good enough for you.”

“He didn’t have all these issues when he chose to coach _you_.” Yuri bit back with a cocked eyebrow, and Katsudon actually blushed.

“Yeah, that’s… that’s kinda different.” he stammered, then, straightening his back “Yurio…”

“That’s not my name.” he told him in a clipped voice..

“Sorry, I mean… Yuri. He thinks you’re really good.” then Katsudon asked him “Did he tell you why he retired?”

“Yeah, some bullshit about Jean and I scoring higher than him.” Yuri said with a roll of his eyes.

“Well, in a way, yeah. I was… I was very angry he had decided to quit. And disappointed.” Yuri listened, remembering how the two of them had barely talked for weeks, but after he had returned from Montreal, they had gotten back to their gross selves. “The reason Victor retired after this season was because he realised you’re better than him.” Katsudon said quietly, looking at Yuri through his glasses “The next season is the Olympic one, and he knew you’d never get the attention you deserved if he competed too.”

“So he retired out of the goodness of his fucking heart?” Yuri asked with scepticism, his eyebrow rising even higher.

“It’s part of the reason, yeah.” the Japanese replied.

“And what’s the other part?” he asked through narrowed eyes.

“He didn’t want to be forced to compete on the Olympics by RSF.” Yuuri said quietly “You know they would pressure him.”

“So the old man thinks I’m better than him? Still doesn’t make me less pissed off about his fucking coaching methods.” Yuri spat, with less heat.

Yuuri actually chuckled.

“I wish I could help you.” he said with an expression that made Yuri swallow down his own laughter.

“You’re fucking useless, pig.” Yuri deadpanned, curving his lips in a tiny smile.

And the Japanese beamed at him.

 

Jean’s joints popped as he stretched his arms above his head. It was late and he was tired, but Yuri was going to be on the way to the rink soon. Ever since he had moved in the same building as Mila he had developed a habit of texting Jean during the drive to the rink. It was a nice addition to their usual schedule, and since it coincided with the time Jean got to bed, it made for a perfect way to end the day. He opened Netflix to watch something while he waited.

He had just put his headphones on when a knock sounded on his open bedroom door. Jean pulled them off, turning on his chair. Mélanie was standing awkwardly in the doorway, clutching her phone to her chest.

“Mél? What’s up?” he inquired, frowning.

His sister grimaced, entering his room and perching herself on the edge of his bed.

“Have you been on your social media lately?” she asked. There was a seriousness on her face that made his frown deepen. What was going on?

“Not much.” he replied, bemused “I’m still waiting for the whole mess to die down.”

And he did. It was proving to be no less refreshing than it had been the first few weeks. Looking at his screen and seeing only notifications from people he cared about, taking picture without the intent of sharing them with the world. For now at least. He had not resisted the temptation of making an album of photos that he was definitely going to post on his instagram once the whole fuss about Yuri and him calmed down.

“Yeah, about that.” Mél said, drawing him out of his thoughts. He looked at her scratching her neck in discomfort before she told him with a grimace “It kinda escalated.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s better if you see for yourself.” she told him, clutching her phone even tighter,

Jean frowned, but picked his own phone. He logged in on Twitter for the first time in weeks,  and scrolled through the notifications, feeling his stomach drop deeper and deeper while an anger born from disbelief flared to life.

The mess had not calmed down. Not one bit. In fact it was way worse than he could have imagined it.

There were Jean’s fans who bashed Yuri, calling him out for all the times he had lost his temper, for being too crass, too rude to date someone like him. They used quite a fanciful array of adjectives to describe him, and with each one he read Jean felt angrier and angrier. But mixed with the rage at seeing Yuri insulted by Jean’s own supporters, was the horrible feeling that rose up his gullet when he saw the tweets from _Yuri’s_ fans.

The Yuri Angels were vicious. They stopped at no means in insulting him, in trying to convince the world their relationship was nothing short of abuse. That Yuri was a _child_ , never mind he was seventeen years old, and was old enough to consent in both their countries. They were on a crusade to defend Yuri’s innocence and help him get out of Jean’s clutches. They called him manipulative.

They called him things way worse than that.

And even though back when Yuri had been in Montreal Jean had told him he did not care, as he looked at things that were written on his account, he could not stop the wave of nausea rising from his stomach.

“Jean?” his sister’s voice was quiet, and her large blue eyes were looking at him clearly worried “You okay?”

“I… Why would they say _these things_ about me?” he asked, feeling disgusted, and cold. Like there was a chill inside him that seeped out of his bones. And his sister must have noticed something, because she rose to her feet and threw her arms around him, pulling Jean in a fierce embrace.

“Because they’re stupid, and jealous.” Mél said into the crook of his neck, and Jean let himself be held by his sister, focusing on her unshakeable support rather than the thought of the speculations and accusation he had read on his account.

Slowly her arms eased and she pulled back, giving him a lopsided smile

“Look, I didn’t show you this to make you feel bad, okay?” she said “But since you’re going to Russia, well there might be Yuri’s fans around, so I figured it’s better if you know”

“Thanks mini-Leroy.” he teased her half-heartedly, but she rolled with it, giving him her trademark exasperated expression. Then she shook her head.

“Are you gonna be okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m the King after all, what’s a bit of slander on the internet for me?” he asked with a confidence he wasn’t feeling.

“Bad publicity?” Mél offered “Sponsors pulling back…”

“Jee, thanks for making me feel better about it!” he exclaimed with a guffaw “You sure have a way with words, little bug.” then more seriously “Do maman and dad know?”

“Yeah, I keep them updated. It was Mom who suggested I tell you.” she said, shuffling her feet, and looking at him with a mixture of worry and awkwardness, while Jean nodded. “Look, I’m sorry.” she continued “We’re all really trying to shut those bitches up, but…”

“You’ve been definitely spending too much time with Yuri.” he butted in, blinking at her language, but she just rolled her eyes

“Oh sod off, Jean.” she bit back, then biting her lip she went on  “I mean it, you know? There are many of us skaters supporting you, and trying to stop those nasty rumours from spreading.”

“I kinda gathered when I saw what’s it called, the Pliroy Support Squad?” he asked rising an amused eyebrow.

“Oh, that’s Mila Babicheva’s idea.” Mél added with a large grin, eyes dancing in admiration “She’s awesome! I can’t wait to join the Seniors and finally meet her.”

There was something in the way she said it that made Jean grin.

“She has a boyfriend, you know?.” he told her teasingly, making her blush to the roots of her dark hair.

“Jean! It’s not like _that_!” Mél exclaimed, then she mumbled “I hate you.”

“No you don’t. I’m dating your idol, remember?” he replied in a singsong voice “Plus I’m your favourite brother.”

“No, you’re not.” she it back “I prefer Tommy. He’s nice. And he doesn’t tease me about crushes that I _don’t_ have.”

“Sure you don’t.” he said with a wink while his lips curled in a large grin.

Mél pouted and Jean started laughing loudly, forgetting for a moment about Twitter. About the things he had read, and how people judged him, slandered him, accused him of being something which made his stomach roll.

For a moment he was just teasing his sister, pushing her buttons.

And laughing.

 

It was Saturday night and Yuri was folding his fucking laundry. His muscles ached like a bitch, but Yuri was folding sweatpants and socks. He scowled, putting a pair of boxers on the underwear pile, and grabbing the next item from the pile. The twilight of the white night lit dimly his apartment, fading into the orange light of the lamp he had switched on behind the sofa. It was past eleven, and he was tired as fuck, but of the many perks of living alone, having no one to remind him about chores in time was not one of them. And since he had used the last pair of socks that morning and had only one clean pair of sweatpants in his wardrobe, instead of resting after a gruelling, and unsurprisingly frustrating training session with Victor, Yuri had forced his aching body to do the laundry.

Three and a half hours later he was still not done with the fucking thing, and it was only the combined mental scolding from his Grandfather _and_ Lilia that had him soldier through it. Suddenly a knock sounded on Yuri’s door. The sound was loud in the silence of his apartment, and Yuri frowned, putting the laundry down.

He got up from the sofa and walking to the door, wondering who the fuck was bothering him this late. It better not be Mila, he gritted his teeth, opening the door.

It was Mila.

Her lips were pulled a bubblegum pink grin, and Yuri scowled.

“What do you want?” he asked harshly. But instead of being cowed by his tone, the hag’s grin only grew larger.

“I have vodka.” she said, lifting up a bottle of Russian Standard, condensation running down the matte white glass. Yuri blinked, bemused. He was about to ask what the fuck she was doing, but in her usual fashion she took his silence as assent, and pushed her way into his apartment without much ado.

Mila plopped down on his sofa, sprawling over it with a familiarity that made Yuri sigh wearily. He shook his head and closed the door.

“Fetch some glasses, will you.” she called, and Yuri’s scowl deepened, but he just gritted his teets and walked towards the kitchen cabinets.

He had no idea what Mila was up to, but when she set her mind on something it was easier to let her run with it. Arguing was futile. Besides, they had both a free day tomorrow, so there was no harm in indulging her. And it surely beat spending the evening folding clothes.  

He put two glasses on the table and fetched his laundry, depositing it on the bed before he joined his rinkmate slash neighbour on the sofa.

He scowled at her while he waited for the hag to do whatever she had set her mind to. But she appeared to be quite content to take her time pouring a more than generous amount of vodka in the glasses, quietly humming some annoying pop tune while she was at it. She put the bottle down and offered a glass to him. He sniffed at the it, eyebrow twitching at the strong smell of alcohol. But he didn’t say anything, taking a gulp of it, and swallowing it despite the burning trail it left down his throat.

“So, Yuratchka...” Mila purred, grinning with mischief.

“What?” he spat, glowering.

“Aw, come on, I haven’t pestered you since you got back.” she said, and Yuri had a bad feeling about this. There _was_ one topic he had miraculously avoided discussing with the redhead. But she was going to ask, wasn’t she?  

“Your _boyfriend_ is coming here.” she said, and Yuri almost growled, because of course he had to be right. “So, I want to know everything!”

“There’s nothing to know.” he bit back “ And it’s none of your fucking business.”

“Sure it is.” she replied with a cheeky grin “ I’m your friend!”

“Beka is my friend. You’re just annoying.” Yuri muttered with little heat, taking another sip of vodka.

“Well, I’m Beka’s girlfriend, so at the very least I’m your friend by proxy.” she bit back cheerfully, ignoring his insult and downing her glass of vodka. She set down on the coffee table to pour herself another one, eyeing Yuri’s half-empty glass with a raised brow.

Yuri scowled downing the rest of it in one go.

“There is still nothing to say. Jean and I are dating. End of story.” he said, passing her the empty glass.

“Oh please!” she exclaimed, spilling a bit of vodka on his coffee table “You practically eloped to Canada, and we found out where you are when we saw a picture of the two of you being all PDA. You should have seen Georgi’s sighs.” then cocking a perfectly plucked red eyebrow she added teasingly “Not so gross when it’s you being kissed, huh?”

“Shut up hag.” he retorted weakly, snatching his glass of vodka and taking a large gulp “We didn’t fucking _elope_.”

Mila laughed.

“You have to admit it was a bit of a surprise.” she said laying back on the cushions and toying with her glass “I mean the two of you could barely stand each other.” then flashing him the most impish grin he had ever been subjected to “So, I demand to know, how on earth did it happen?”

Yuri gnashed his teeth, scowling darkly at her. But she was not going to leave him alone until he he satisfied her curiosity. Fucking, inquisitive hag. How could Beka stand this, Yuri had no idea. Although with his friend’s taciturn nature Mila sure found herself a tough bone to pick.

The thought of her struggles to extract informations from Otabek made Yuri’s lips curl into a grin. Karma was a bitch.

“Yura! Don’t be mean.” she whined, suddenly jumping to her knees and giving him a pair of puppy eyes that may work with her boyfriend, but Yuri was not falling for that. They had been training together for too long.

He cocked an unimpressed eyebrow, and Mila pouted, which made him roll his eyes.

“Fine.” he said, feeling fucking generous “I kissed him, he asked me out, we got together. That’s it.”

“Wait, _you_ kissed him?” Mila asked, blue eyes lit in surprise “And _after_ that he asked you out?”

“Did I fucking stutter?”

“Yura! When, how? Tell me!” she exclaimed, almost spilling all of her vodka on the sofa. He glared at her. He was _not_ planning on cleaning his sofa, thank you very much. He had enough household chores as it was.

Mila was still looking at him in what could be a very good rendition of Makkachin.

“At the party in Helsinki.” he said, putting her out of her misery “I got drunk.”

Mila grinned, her eyes sparkling in delight.

“You got drunk.” she repeated with a proud expression “Well, you’re full of surprises! Our Yuratchka all grown up…” she said with a fake sigh, which made Yuri scowl.

Mila laughed.

And Yuri concluded that he really hadn’t drunk _nearly_ enough vodka to have this conversation.

 

The late morning sun streamed through the open window. A light breeze ruffled the curtains, carrying the chirping of birds, and the occasional car passing by. Jean was seldom at home at this hour, but his flight was that afternoon and he was finishing packing his suitcase. There was a nervous energy buzzing through him as he opened and closed drawers, making sure he had not forgotten anything, and getting rid of unnecessary items.

It had been quite a task for him to pack lightly. He was only staying in Saint Petersburg for three nights, so he didn’t really _need_ half of the stuff which littered his bed, waiting to be packed or put away. He sighed, looking at the war zone that was his duvet at the moment, and ran his fingers through his hair. Jean was used to travelling with an impressive amount of luggage, between his clothes and skating equipment. But this was an entirely different occasion.

He was going to see Yuri.

Jean grinned, feeling his stomach knot in anticipation. He could hardly wait to see him. The past weeks had dragged too slowly, and he missed him more with each passing day. Texting and skyping was awesome, but it was nothing in comparison to having Yuri there, hearing his biting tone, his exasperated eye-rolls, the way his green eyes twinkled in barely repressed mirth. Jean longed to wrap his arms around him and hold him close, closer, kiss him senseless and let himself go.

With a wistful sigh, Jean plopped on the edge of his bed, fishing his phone.

Yuri was going to call him a sap, but he didn’t care. He opened the messaging app and typed

_I miss you, princess. :(_

He had just pushed away a pile of T-shirts to make himself some space when his phone pinged. Yuri must have been on a break.

-YuriP-  
_You’ll see me tomorrow, idiot._ _  
_ _Don’t be fucking sappy._

Jean chuckled, quickly typing a reply

_You don’t have to pretend you don’t like it._ _  
_ _I’m not gonna judge! ;)_

Moving a few more item of clothing out of his way, Jean leaned back on the mattress and waited for Yuri’s reply. He should have been finishing packing, but it he guessed he could spare a couple of minutes.

His phone chimed, and Jean opened the text with a grin.

-YuriP-  
_If you add something along the lines of_   
_“Everyone likes King JJ”_  
 _I’m breaking up with you!_

Yuri was joking of course.

But Jean would have been lying to himself if he pretended not to feel the tiniest sting of panic flashing through him as he read the message. He swallowed, forcing himself to laugh it away. He was being stupid, an idiot as Yuri often, and fondly, called him. But he couldn’t help it. He was still under the impression of the internet discourse his sister had shown him. And it made his stomach constrict.

He closed his eyes, willing the tendrils of anxiety to go back from whence they came. Yuri was joking. He was about to fly to Russia in a few hours, and whatever the people on the internet wrote did not factor in their relationship. It did not matter.

So why was he hiding it from Yuri?

Why hadn’t he told his boyfriend about the things he had read and the horrible rush of bile that had risen up his gullet?

His phone suddenly chimed, tearing him away from his thoughts.

-YuriP-  
_You know I’m not serious, right?_

He must have taken too long replying. Yuri never double texted. Swallowing down the anxiety, Jean quickly tapped

_I know, princess. <3 _

Yuri immediately replied

-YuriP-  
_Fuck off._

And Jean shook his head, pushing his dark musings away.He had to finish doing his luggage. So he texted Yuri back.

_Sure. I have to finish packing anyway._ _  
_ _I can’t wait to be in Russia._

And then set his phone aside, getting up from the bed. He did a quick inventory of his belongings and picking the essentials. A few minutes later his phone pinged again, and he fished it, opening the text.

-YuriP-  
_Likewise, idiot._ _  
_ _Gotta go too. Water break is nearly over._

He chuckled, feeling lighter already, or maybe just lying to himself. It did not matter. He was going to Saint Petersburg, and in less than a day he would be with Yuri.

And that was the only thing which mattered.

 

Pulkovo was filled with people. There were many Russians, but also quite the amount of foreigners. After all Saint Petersburg’s white nights were a tourist attraction. Not that Yuri cared about any of it in the slightest. Except the sheer amount of people flooding out of the gates made it hard for him to pace back and forth in the arrival area while he waited for Jean.

Scowling he tapped his foot impatiently, while he waited for a large group of Japanese tourists to move out of the way. The only upside of this whole situation was that Yuri managed to blend quite inconspicuously in the crowd. Nevertheless Yuri had his hood up and his sunglasses perched on his nose. The Yuri Angels were a menace, with their uncanny ability of finding him, and Yuri frankly wanted to avoid a repeat of the Montreal airport scene.

It had kickstarted a veritable storm on twitter, which still pissed him off.

Not that he had followed it after those first few days in Montreal. Jean and him had agreed to take a social media break, so Yuri had not logged in on any of his accounts. He knew it was only a matter of time before the shitstorm quieted, and his absence from the social media was a good punishment for his fans. He tolerated them because Lilia’s disapproval had taught him to, but it did _not_ give them any fucking right to insult his boyfriend.

He made sure to tweet that before he went radio silent.

How the fandom had reacted was something Yuri could give less fucks about. And while it was somewhat odd to snap picture and _not_ post them to his instagram, Yuri was getting strangely used to it. Which was something Beka teased him to no end. After bothering his friend to start posting stuff on instagram and twitter, bitching and moaning that Beka had the social presence of a hermit, Yuri had gone radio silent. So Otabek was amused. Very much so..

Which was to say, Beka quirked his lips in a ghost of a smile when he teased him about it on skype. But in Beka speech that was comparable to Jean’s shiteating grin.

Yuri huffed a chuckle, rolling his eyes. If someone would have told him a year ago that he was going to find _that_ more than just endearing, that he was going to be tapping his foot impatiently while he waited for Jean-Jacques Leroy, his _boyfriend_ , at the airport, well chances were he’d have either laughed hysterically or kickflipped them for being idiots. Probably both.

And yet here he was, thrumming in anticipation, even if it had only been several weeks since they had last seen each other. He was turning into Victor and the worst part was he couldn’t find it in himself to be irritated at the notion. Fuck.

He shook his head, fishing his phone and checking the time. Jean’s plane had landed nearly fifteen minutes ago, what the fuck was taking him so long? Fucking immigration, probably.

There was a lull in the stream of people, and Yuri was able to resume his pacing. Every couple of steps he glanced towards the gates, but no telltale undercut was appearing. Yuri scowled, doing a full circle through the arrivals area, and starting another one. A new clutter of people started walking out of the gates, and Yuri craned his neck, looking for Jean. One of the upside of his growth spurt was that he managed to somewhat efficiently see above the sea of shoulders and heads.

And there he was. Dark hair, tan skin, and stupidly bright blue eyes.

Yuri’s stomach flipped and he felt himself grinning as he started pushing through the people. Striding towards him.

Fucking finally, he thought as he reached him and threw his arms around Jean’s broad shoulders, and squeezing tight.

His heart thrummed a thousand miles an hours, but he didn’t register anything save fore the fact that Jean was here.

He was here.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot _finally_ moved forward, which puts us in the second half of this fic. I'm hoping for 17 chapters, but it all depends on the boys collaborating with my muse. *sighs*
> 
> And yeah, if you think noticed antipliroys making a cameo here with their opinions, yep you noticed well.
> 
> Tell me what you think! About the plot, this chapter, really you can just literally slam your keyboard, I'll be on cloud nine! XD


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't got a single good excuse for this terrible delay! However I _do_ hope this chapter will have been worth the wait! ;)

_ “In a minute there is time _ _   
_ _ For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.” _

_ T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock _

 

The sound of the traffic filtered through the open window. It buzzed in the small apartment, filling the warm summer air with the sound of cars and voices. Jean basked in the warmth of the bed, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of Saint Petersburg. His eyes were still closed, but he didn’t need to see to know Yuri was still asleep next to him. His breaths puffed evenly on the bare skin of Jean’s chest.

Jean smiled, sneaking an arm across the lithe body, and tangling his fingers in the long hair that fanned above the sheet. Slowly he peeled his eyes open, only to feel his heart stutter in his chest. Yuri was so beautiful. Golden hair aglow in the morning sunlight and the light dusting of freckles on his nose a shade darker, as the lightest of tans coloured his exposed skin. Jean couldn’t resist, he placed a light kiss on the top of his pointy nose, and Yuri scrunched it in his sleep. 

His chest shook with repressed laughter, but he kept quiet. Yuri was sleeping so peacefully, and Jean wanted to enjoy the sight. It was the best birthday present he could have asked for, Yuri sleeping next to him with nothing but a sheet covering his beautiful body. His fingers stroked down Yuri’s arm, feeling the smooth skin stretched above wiry sinews. He followed the muscles to his collarbone, and he couldn’t help thinking about the way the tendons in his neck had stretched when Yuri had come undone underneath him the night before. When Jean’s mouth had made him scream his name, pleading for more.

He could feel want begin to pool low inside him, and he breathed out through his nose, trying to veer his thoughts to safer shores. Since that night in Montreal they had pushed further and further beyond the line in the sand, but it was still uncharted territory, frail and precious. He wanted to treasure those memories, not make them something expendable. Yuri would no doubt call him a sap, but he didn’t care. 

The smile on his face widened, and kissed the top of Yuri’s head, gently pulling him closer to him. The blond grunted something in his sleep, but his arm wound across Jean’s chest, gripping him tight. And Jean’s heart did a somersault before setting into a fast thrum.

Yuri’s head now in the crook of Jean’s neck moved a bit, and a moment later his eyelids lifted to reveal a pair of sleepy green eyes.

“Good morning, princess!” he beamed, and Yuri buried his face back into his chest grunting out something that sounded suspiciously like  _ fuck off,  _ and Jean couldn’t resist laughing “But it’s my birthday…” he protested teasingly.

Yuri’s head lifted up and he glared at him.

“Fine then. Happy birthday.” he deadpanned “Now fuck off and let me sleep.”

“Such a way with words.” Jean teased.

“It’s too fucking early for a day off.” Yuri mumbled against his chest. But Jean was having none of it. A sudden wave of mischief coursed through him, and he sneaked his hand down Yuri’s back. It was a slow and deliberate motion, barely a touch, but he could feel Yuri arching into it, muscles rippling under warm skin. 

He trailed lower, inch by inch, slowing down when he reached the small of his back. He felt Yuri inhale, eyes still closed but very much interested. Jean could feel him grow hard against his thigh, and he smirked, moving his hand until he was cupping his ass. Yuri squirmed, lifting his head from his chest and capturing Jean’s lips in a sleepy kiss. It quickly became deeper and more insistent, as Jean worked his way across Yuri’s hip and towards the front. 

Yuri gripped his shoulder and rolled them over. Jean fit snugly between his thighs, relishing in the sudden touch which sent ripples of pleasure up his spine. He moved slowly, leisurely, rubbing himself against Yuri’s length while his hand rose to the nape of his neck, savouring the kiss. He could feel Yuri’s breaths grow shallow while his hips jutted against his. And Yuri’s fingers dug into the flesh of his shoulder.

“Jean, I… I want...” he breathed once their lips parted, and Jean didn’t know exactly what it was, but it still prompted into action, rising to his knees and hand going to the waistband of Yuri’s boxers. It was not the first time he did this, and yet he hesitated, looking at Yuri, flushed and debauched with his golden hair spilled on the pillow.

“Get on with it.” Yuri barked, the look in his eyes dulling the edge if his words and moulding them into a plea. It was all the incentive he needed. He hooked his fingers under the fabric and pulled down.

Yuri moaned when Jean’s mouth closed around him. His whole body spasmed as want curled scorching hot inside him. His dark blue eyes, swallowed by the wide pupils were locked on him, making him grip the sheets with violence, while his heart hammered and hammered and hammered. It was like being on top of the world and it was fucking torture at same time, Jean’s tongue moving with practiced ease, his throat accommodating him in ways that should be fucking illegal.

It had been impossibly good in Montreal, their first leap in the unknown, but it was only getting better, with each marginal increase in knowing each other’s body. Jean’s calloused palms moving over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, and rubbing lazy circles while his mouth ripped away his ability to think, movement after deliberate movement. 

He felt pressure building inside him, but for all that his body demanded release he wanted it to last longer, longer, to never end. He wanted Jean’s eyes on him while he pulled him apart, he wanted his hands on him, he wanted everything. Above it all he wanted to know how it would feel to have him  _ inside  _ him. And the thought alone was nearly enough to send him over the edge. It took him all of his restraint to keep his hips from buckling and all the pressure he felt not to spill down Jean’s throat.

Yuri wanted him, so why couldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he? He didn’t even register his hand moving to Jean’s shoulder, stopping him in his motion, until he was facing a pair of very puzzled blue eyes.

“Yuri?” he inquired, his hoarse voice doing no good to his barely held control. 

“I want you.” he said, feeling a flush of embarrassment overlay his already burning cheeks, but when Jean did not seem to grasp the unspoken, he cleared his throat a bit before he gathered his courage and added “Inside me.”

Jean’s eyebrows rose nearly imperceptibly, and his mouth parted in pleased surprise, but he still asked

“Are you sure?”

In spite of the awkwardness of the situation Yuri managed an eye-roll, lifting to his elbows and giving Jean a pointed look,

“Yes,” he told him firmly, before pulling him towards him and capturing his lips once again. 

Jean’s arm sneaked under his back, pulling him closer to him, and deepening the kiss. But Yuri deftly switched their position and climbed atop him, straddling his waist. Parting their mouth, he extended an arm towards the bedside table’s drawer. And Jean, seeing what he was looking for, took initiative, rummaging through it. Yuri trailed wet kisses over the expanse of his chest, grazing his lips over a nipple while Jean fumbled above him, uncapping the tube, and slicking his fingers.

Yuri lifted his head, trailing his fingers where his mouth had been while he watched Jean’s motions with interest, not missing the blatant blush on his cheeks. 

And then he was suddenly being pulled into one more kiss. There was heat and urgency in the way his mouth moved against his, and it almost distracted him from the sudden stretch of Jean’s finger making its way inside him. It was a strange, alien sensation, and yet not unwelcome at all. Not when Jean’s other hand tangled in his hair while his teeth grazed on Yuri’s bottom lip. A light bite and Yuri almost moaned, but the hiss as another finger made its way inside him caught him unprepared.

It was achingly slow, and yet with every movement it gained an ease which became more and more familiar, while the rest of Yuri’s body begged for attention. The more his fingers worked their way inside him, the deeper want pooled inside him. He wanted, he  _ needed  _ Jean. But he was taking his time, slow and steady. 

Yuri was reaching the end of his already frayed patience when the sudden absence of Jean’s fingers made him gasp. But he had no time to form a thought before Jean was pulling him along, switching their positions. Yuri’s head plopped on the pillow, hair clinging to his sweaty skin, and then there was Jean looking at him, opening his mouth to no doubt ask more dumb questions. But Yuri had had enough. 

He hooked his leg around Jean’s back, pulling him towards him in an eloquent motion. And Jean caught himself on his palms, giving him an amused grin that quickly became a groan as Yuri pressed them closer. 

Jean’s hand gripped his, twining their fingers above Yuri’s head, and then he was suddenly making his way inside him. His breath hitched and his fingers gripped Jean’s strongly while his other hand dug in the muscles of his back. It was a lot, it was too much. It was perfect.

He pulled Jean’s head down until their mouths met, and then he was kissing him deeper, breath stuttering as Jean started moving. It was excruciatingly slow, and yet it almost overwhelmed him. His nerve endings felt frayed, and everything was too much, and yet nothing had ever felt so fucking right as this. The feeling of Jean moving inside him, groaning into his mouth and gripping his hand with as much force as Yuri did. 

It was bliss, electrifying and intense, too intense. It was fucking torture, and yet Yuri relished every single slide of Jean’s length, every roll of his hips, slowly gaining speed, but terribly controlled still. He was holding back, and even as Yuri wanted nothing but to strip him of this last tendril of self-control, he relished in it. In the beads of sweat that travelled down his neck at the strain of willingly reining himself in. 

It was a heady feeling, and it made Yuri tentatively roll his own hips. And Jean groaned at the sudden motion, pulling away from his mouth and looking at him with want blazing in his eyes, the thin strip of the iris almost midnight blue. Yuri moved again. Jean responded. And then they were setting a pace that increased with each thrust, growing faster and faster, the world narrowing down to the slide of their bodies. To the overwhelming sensation of Jean filling him, of their bodies moving in unison. Of Jean hitting and hitting and hitting a spot that made spots dance in front of Yuri’s eyes even as he met him thrust by thrust.

Nothing existed in that moment but the building of want inside him, pressing lower and lower, until the world reduced to white noise, and Yuri needed to feel more. He needed friction, he needed, something anything. He needed…

Jean’s fingers closed around his length and Yuri’s hips suddenly buckled as he came undone, spilling everything, moaning Jean’s name, and falling falling falling. A final thrust met with a jolt of Jean’s hips, and then he was collapsing atop him, chest heaving in a mirror of Yuri’s own.

“Yuri…”he breathed, pressing a sloppy kiss on his shoulder, and Yuri’s hand slid softly down his spine, resting on the small of Jean’s back. 

His lungs were still refusing to cooperate, but there was a calm contentment washing over his limbs, and his heart swelled with emotions. Because Jean was here, close, naked skin against naked skin, nothing but a sheen of sweat dividing them. And nothing had felt more real than this moment. He could feel the fast thrum of Jean’s heart against his ribcage, the heat of his skin, the weight of his body above him. And it was perfect.

It was everything. 

“Happy birthday.” he murmured in his ear, before pressing a kiss to his hair. 

Jean was here, with him in Saint Petersburg. 

And Yuri had never been so fucking happy.

 

The sun was shining warmly, bathing the streets of Saint Petersburg in a soft glow. A whisper of wind ruffled Jean’s hair, and he glanced at Yuri whose blond mane danced around his head like a halo. The angelic image was somewhat ruined by the annoyed scowl he was wearing on his lips, and Jean felt a chuckle make its way up his chest. He stopped their stroll down the large bridge to tuck Yuri’s hair behind his ear. His green eyes caught Jean’s, and his fingers lingered on Yuri’s cheek. He was so beautiful, eyes glowing and lips curled in the smallest of smiles. It made Jean’s heart swell inside his chest, beating a thrum of emotions that made him feel like he was flying in the summer sky. Gliding like the seagulls which dipped into the Neva. 

They had spent better part of the morning in bed, and after a lazy lunch they had gotten out of Yuri’s apartment and into the maze of large streets and even larger bridges that was Saint Petersburg. It was a truly breathtaking city, but it could have been the dullest corner of Montreal and Jean would have enjoyed it, if it meant being able to stroll there with Yuri by his side. Yuri who was now smirking lightly.

“You sap.” he told Jean with a lazy expression

“What? I didn’t say anything.” he protested, but Yuri just rolled his eyes.

“You don’t have to.” he bit back with faux disgust “You’re practically oozing sappiness.”

Jean grinned, feeling a chuckle reverberate low in his windpipe

“I can’t help myself, you inspire it” he told him, grin widening at the way Yuri’s lips quirked with repressed laughter. 

Yuri rolled his eyes again 

“Idiot.” he spat without any heat, shaking his head and freeing a soft lock of hair from where Jean had tucked it behind his ear. It dangled in front of Yuri’s lightly flushed cheeks, and Jean found himself staring, unable to quite believe he was really  _ here _ , not on the other side of the globe, desperately waiting for a text.

“Your idiot.” he told Yuri when his brain managed to reconnect to his tongue, making Yuri eye him in exasperation.

“I thought we established that, like a fucking lifetime ago.” he told him flatly, and Jean leaned to forward, pressing a peck on his lips.

“I like to hear it, princess.” he said against his lips, sliding his palm up Yuri’s spine and relishing in the way the blond perfectly slotted against him.

“Fine idiot. You’re my idiot.” Yuri said with a sigh and another roll of his eyes “Happy?”

“Yes.” he said softly, closing his eyes and kissing him properly.

With Yuri he was always happy.

 

The sky had turned to milky white by the time they made it back to Yuri’s tenement. They started ascending the stairs, the sound of music carrying down to the second floor. Yuri had no doubt it was Mila’s doing. No one else in their building had such blatant disregard for the house rules. Yuri was still amazed at the fact no one had complained yet. Maybe it was due to her charming nature, and the way she smiled merrily at their neighbours whenever she encountered them. Which meant Yuri was the only one in the whole tenement who was not under her spell, and therefore complained. Constantly.

It was an exercise in futility.

He scowled, tugging Jean along towards his apartment. He hoped the hag was not going to bother them. She had been much too ecstatic when Yuri had taken the day off to spend it with his boyfriend. And the day had so far been fucking perfect. He didn’t need her to ruin it all with her nosy attitude. 

Jean gave him a mildly puzzled look, but Yuri just shook his head, fishing his keys and slotting them into the lock while Mila’s crappy music ricocheted in the hallway. 

“I know this song.” Jean suddenly said, humming along with it.

“Of course you’d know trashy pop songs.” Yuri muttered, rolling his eyes and pulling them both inside the apartment before shutting the door none too gently. 

“I’ll have you know I have broad horizons.” Jean told him haughtily, toeing off his shoes. Yuri snorted.

“If by broad horizons you mean no fucking taste…” he rebutted tartly, and Jean gasped.

“You hurt me, princess!” he exclaimed in mock horror “I’ll have you know I’m well versed in all matters of taste.” then more playfully “After all I’m dating  _ you _ , am I not?”

Yuri blinked, unsure whether to feel offended or flattered. Jean moved closer, sneaking an arm around his waist, and pulling him towards him in a smooth motion.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” Jean told him lowly, blue eyes boring into his, and Yuri found himself blushing. His stupid heart was beating a mile an hour, and his breath hitched in his throat.

“You’re not bad yourself.” he muttered, relishing the pleased smile that unfurled on Jean’s lips, and the light tinge of pink on his cheeks. Then emboldened by the breakneck pace of Jean’s heartbeats as they pounded against his chest, Yuri caught his lips in a kiss, cupping his strong jaw in his palm. 

It grew deeper all too soon, and Jean’s hand snuck under the hem of Yuri’s shirt, feeling the warm skin of his back, taut over hard muscle and the ridge of his spine. Yuri arched into the touch, bringing their bodies impossibly close. A muffled groan escaped his lips when Yuri’s growing arousal pressed against his own. It had only been that morning they had finally crossed that last line, but Jean found himself eager to see the perfection of Yuri’s body underneath him, above him, tight in his arms, pale skin stark in contrast with his tan one. 

Yuri’s hand found its way to the hem of Jean’s T-shirt and he pulled up, forcing Jean to loosen his grasp around Yuri’s waist. It took a moment for the shirt to be off, and then there were pale hands moving across his chest, touching with intent, and Yuri’s mouth descended on his neck, teeth lightly grazing the skin. Jean did not even realise he was moving until he found his calves hitting the edge of the bed, unmade since the morning.

He sat down, pulling Yuri along with him, and it was almost like that first night in Helsinki, only better better. Because there was no holding back, and when Yuri straddled him, Jean wasted no time in peeling Yuri’s shirt off and exposing the flushed skin of his toned chest. They moved in a strange synchronicity, the faint beats of the music they could hear through the walls, leading them to a fast but steady pace. 

Kiss after kiss, with each inch of skin Yuri touched, bit, scratched, licked, Jean’s vision grew narrower and narrower, until there was nothing but the feel of his strong thighs straddling his hips, of his ass moving teasingly above his hardness, and making him groan with the need to feel  _ more.  _ He gripped Yuri’s shoulders to flip them over, but the blond caught his wrists, pulling his arms high above his head as he kissed his way down to his navel. Then, releasing his arms, Yuri unbuttoned his own shorts, shucking them quickly off, before working Jean’s trousers off as well. 

His eyes were a dark green, almost swallowed by the darkness of his dilated pupils, and Jean sat up on the bed, clutching him tight, and capturing his lips in a kiss that full of intention, and promise. His hands slid down Yuri’s neck until they were cupping his firm ass, and a groan escaped Yuri’s mouth. 

Before he knew it Yuri was straddling him again, underwear lost somewhere in the process, and closing his long fingers around Jean’s length. His hips jerked involuntarily at the sudden feel of sweaty skin, and the firm tug that followed. He opened his mouth to let out the groan that was building inside him, but Yuri’s lips were against his, kissing him deeply, hungrily. He knew what he wanted, and maybe they should have waited to make sure Yuri did not get hurt in the process, but Jean’s mind was barely connecting, and flipping Yuri on his back, rummaging through the drawer and then slicking his fingers felt like the most natural move in the world. And when Yuri gasped at the sudden intrusion of a finger, and later two, Jean was entirely gone. 

There was nothing but Yuri, squirming under him, flushed and needy, all but pleading him to move faster, to stop taking his fucking time. And he might have even voiced the latter, Jean was not sure, the only thing he knew was that all of a sudden he was being flipped back onto his back and there was a wild-eyed Yuri straddling him, blond hair all dishevelled and hips lowering down onto him.

He felt fingers on his length for a second before Yuri was moving down, tight but ready, moving down inch after inch, until he bottomed out. He felt him hiss, and still for a moment, chest heaving, and Jean’s palms gripped Yuri’s hips, keeping him still, and waiting for him to set the pace. A slight movement, a wince. Jean stopped him in his motion.

“Are… are you alright?” he breathed out, unsure of how he even managed to string words together when there was a gloriously naked Yuri Plisetsky tightly wrapped around him, and looking at Jean with hunger in his eyes. 

His mouth parted, but he didn’t reply, choosing instead to roll his hips lightly. Jean felt his eyelids drop as his eyes rolled back, but he forced them open, looking at the flushed skin of Yuri’s chest, at the parted redness of his lips, and the sweaty strands of hair falling in front of his eyes, pupils blown wide. It was the hottest thing he had ever seen. And the will it took not to move his own hips matching Yuri’s movements, was incredible.

Bit by bit, Yuri’s hips moved in an ever increasing pace, fingers bruisingly gripping Jean’s shoulders, while he slid on and off his length. And with each slide it became closer and closer to impossible to keep himself from thrusting back up. After a particularly sharp motion of Yuri’s hips, Jean forfeited all self-control and his hips rose to meet Yuri’s, and setting the pace to an ever increasing one. 

Yuri’s fingers dug in Jean’s flesh but he didn’t care, his own hands guiding Yuri while he watched the blond start to come apart, moan after moan, growing louder, faster, more needy with each passing second. The world become nothing but the slide of their bodies, and the sharpness of their movement, chasing, seeking, climbing to steeper heights. Until there was nothing but bliss.

A loud moan escaped Yuri’s lips as his hips buckled, and he came undone, spilling all over Jean’s stomach. But he barely registered any of it, feeling Yuri’s muscles contract and his own body crossing the edge. Into bliss.

Yuri fell forward, and Jean caught him in his arms, snuggling him close to his heaving chest, uncaring of the stickiness and the sweat mingling between their bodies. He kept him close, circling his arms around his waist, and feeling the fast pace of his heart against his flushed skin. Feeling overwhelmingly happy, and complete. Feeling like there was nothing in the world, nothing that could compare to this. 

Feeling something that had a very distinctive name, but which Jean could still not utter. Something that made him feel like there was nothing more precious than this. 

More precious than Yuri.

 

The rink was already full of noise by the time they made it there. It was late morning, and normally Yuri would have been in the middle of training, sweat cooling in the chilly air of the rink, and muscles warm and ready to spring. But Jean’s short visit had made him bargain with Victor for another day off training. The only reason he was stepping inside the familiar building, and leading Jean towards his rinkmates was that his boyfriend had wanted to see where Yuri spent most of his days, so he had indulged him. 

He eyed the other skaters, giving them a dark look. He was positive his teammates were going to have a field day, but he’d be damned if he didn’t make them sweat for it. 

Predictably Georgi and Mila immediately skated towards the barrier, the former starting to babble something about the beauty of sharing the ice with your soulmate or some other sappy shit which made Yuri want to gag, while Mila immediately started chattering happily with Jean. Yuri just blinked, looking at the scene unfold in front of him. Thankfully Victor was ignoring Jean altogether like was his custom, so at least they were spared his excessive antics. 

Katsudon was on the ice too, but he appeared to be debating whether he wanted to join the hag and Georgi in their pestering. His bespectacled gaze caught Yuri’s and he must have read the annoyance Yuri was feeling, because he just gave him a small smile and resumed his practice. Moments like this made him wonder if he genuinely disliked Katsudon or if it was just habit that made him act rudely towards the Japanese. 

He shook his head. Jean was turning him into a sappy idiot. He had not been so mushy before the moron had landed in Pulkovo. 

Yakov’s loud grumbles tore him from a train of thoughts that was better abandoned. His former coach’s normally angry face was growing more peeved by the minute, and he was fairly sure it had everything to do with his two skaters completely ignoring the fact they should be skating at the moment. 

Sensing her coach about to go ballistic, Mila’s head suddenly snapped up, and an excuse later she was skating back to the centre of the ice. Yakov muttered something, before starting to yell at the redhead. Used to the loudness, Yuri tuned him off without any trouble, joining his boyfriend where he was still standing near the barrier, watching the morning sun shimmer on the ice, and turning the lines and curves the blades had carved into lace.

“Is your coach upset that I came?” Jean asked, and Yuri blinked with surprise. Jean was usually quite oblivious about the effect he had on people, but he guessed Yakov’s yelling was a bit too blatant even for him.

“Yakov’s usually pissed off. Don’t worry about it.” Yuri reassured him, putting his elbows on the barrier and following Jean’s line of sight “So, what do you think? Better than your rink in Montreal?”

“You’ve been at my rink.” Jean bit back, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“That’s not an answer, idiot.” 

“It has huge windows.” Jean said, eyes focused on the tall trees beyond the glass panes, and the blue sky above them. “But it’s much calmer in my rink, you gotta admit.” he added after a moment, grinning.

“I don’t mind it.” Yuri said with a shrug “I’m used to it.”

“Yeah, I remember when you were upset because your coaches were  _ not  _ yelling at you” Jean added with a chuckle, and Yuri glared at him, trying to mask the sting he felt. Jean’s jab had been meant to be harmless, and while Yuri was relatively content with Victor, no matter how infuriating the old man was, there was still a tinge of bitterness when he thought about his former coaches. 

Rejection tasted sour on his tongue. He grimaced. 

And Jean must had seen it because a moment later he abruptly changed topic.

“Mila wants us to go grab a drink later.” he told him cheerfully, and Yuri frowned.

“But it’s your last night here .” he said, somewhat peeved at the sudden change of plans. Not that they had any defined plans for the evening. But he had considered it unspoken that they would be spending together the little time they had left. And the idea of them using the last few hours Jean was in Saint Petersburg to cater Mila’s curiosity made his hackles rise. But then again, Jean seemed to want to spend some time with the hag. 

Yuri scowled, giving a sideways look at his boyfriend, and his stupid eager expression. Like a fucking puppy. It was disgusting. And at the same time it made his stupid heart flutter. 

“Fine.” he said, exhaling loudly “If you really want to, then whatever.”

“If you’re not…” Jean started but Yuri interjected with annoyance. 

“I said it’s fine.” he bit out. As much as Yuri would have loved to spend the rest of the day together in bed, mapping each other’s bodies, he could see Jean liked the idea of socialising. And besides it was not like socialising with Mila would prevent them from spending time together. “If I have to repeat myself again I’ll start thinking your trashy music turned you deaf.”

Jean grinned, his chest moving in a silent chuckle, and Yuri felt his own lips pull in a small smile.

 

The bar was a small and mildly quiet place. Russian pop music was playing faintly in the background, a dulcet female voice fitting well with the soft melody, and probably singing about love, if the music was any indication. It was nothing extraordinary, Jean mused, but I was still not bad either. They were sitting in a booth, his thigh pressed close to Yuri’s in the cramped space, and their elbows bumping every now and then. As the evening proceeded, and Yuri loosened up, his shoulder leaned against Jean’s, and he caught his fingers under the table, tangling them. 

Mila was sitting across, drinking a soft drink and bemoaning the fact that she was the designated driver. Jean had offered to drive in her stead, but the redhead had cackled, telling him he could never survive Russian traffic. 

“We’re not in your land of the polite.” she told him, before starting on a long series of anecdotes about driving in Saint Petersburg, and the lax attitude towards traffic regulations. 

And Yuri’s permanent scowl eased somewhat now that he wasn’t at the centre of Mila’s teasing. 

The redhead had given him a hard time in the past hour, teasing him relentlessly. Not that Yuri had spared any ammo on her. He had thrown jabs upon jabs about her relationship with Altin. And Jean had enjoyed their bickering immensely. It was obvious most of Yuri’s grumpiness was an act, and he was in fact pretty fond of the girl. 

As he listened to Mila’s tales, Jean found himself smiling, and yet he could not help the sinking feeling in his stomach. It was an altogether pleasant evening. He was enjoying himself. He truly did. But even though he laughed and teased, happy to be there with Yuri and having fun, there was something about Mila’s presence, about the knowing glances she had thrown in his direction whenever the topic skirted to close to social media that had made an uneasy feeling pool inside him. Because try as he might, Jean could not help recalling the chaos he had ignored ever since he had landed in Saint Petersburg. And it made the vodka tonic he was drinking catch in his throat more than once. 

Yuri didn’t notice anything. And even as he forced himself to swallow the bitter cocktail, he was grateful for this silver lining. He did not know what he would do if Yuri started asking questions. He had deliberately avoided talking to Yuri about it, even when Yuri had mentioned the oddness of being constantly offline. He had given Jean more than one opening to spill the beans and make him aware of the utter mess their combined fanclubs were creating. He never took it. 

Because while Jean had the absolute certainty Yuri would not be happy that he had withheld that from him, at the same time he could not make himself ruin the ease they had settled in the past two days. Everything had been good, perfect even, ever since Worlds. And he wanted to keep it such for as long as he could. Maybe it was cravenly of him, or maybe it was just patronising, but Jean had wanted to spare him the self-disgust of reading what people were saying about them. 

Judging by the looks she was giving him, Mila did not agree. 

And Jean was not surprised that when Yuri excused himself to use the loo, her cheerful face grew serious. She leaned across the table, her blue eyes closing on his.

“You have seen, haven’t you?” she asked him, and Jean just nodded, gulping down the already lukewarm vodka tonic he was gripping hard.

“But Yuri hasn’t.” she added. It was not a question, but Jean shook his head nonetheless, sighing.

“He’ll be angry.” he said, and he smiled wryly at the understatement “I kinda wish he never found out.”

“He’ll be more pissed off that you haven’t told him.” Mila’s voice held a warning, and it only echoed what he already knew. 

“I know!” he exclaimed “But the things they’re writing…” 

“Are bullshit.” she butted in, harshly and with a shake of her head that made the locks tucked behind her ear fall on her cheek and hide her undercut. “You know they are bullshit, and I’m pretty sure Yura knows too.”

Her voice was low, almost a hiss. Jean opened his mouth to reply, but Mila suddenly turned cheerful, loudly proclaiming that they needed another round of drinks, because the piss he was drinking was not vodka. You either drank it neat or not at all. And Jean did not have to look to know Yuri was walking back to the table. He quickly tried to school his expression into the usual JJ grin. 

Yuri frowned, looking at the fake smile plastered on his boyfriend’s face.

“What’s going on?” he asked, blunt as ever, looking between Mila and him. There was a tension in the air that had not been there before. 

“Nothing.” Jean replied, too quickly, and Yuri narrowed his eyes.

He sat down on the chair, his knee bumping into Jean’s. There was a strange expression on both his and Mila’s face that made unease shiver down his spine. What the fuck was going on? 

He was about to ask them again, but Mila started blabbering about her planned trip to Almaty, and how she couldn’t wait to see Otabek, and between her talking and Jean asking her questions with too much enthusiasm, Yuri’s curiosity grew into a nagging certainty that something was afoot.

They kept it up for half an hour, and then they called it a night, his boyfriend and Mila still chatting loudly as they exited the bar and walked towards Mila’s car. Since they were fucking neighbours there was no way to get rid of her, and Yuri’s attempt to ask them what the fuck was going on had been shut down by her far too knowingly.

Yuri couldn’t wait to get back home and ask his stupid boyfriend about it. It was probably something moronic, but it irked him that they acted so oddly, like they were hiding something. He knew he was overreacting, but Jean was leaving tomorrow and now he was acting strange, and Yuri didn’t know what to think, how to feel. 

In doubt, anger had always been his answer.

The drive to their tenement seemed to take them an eternity and some more, and by the time Mila killed the engine and they stumbled out of her car, Yuri was about to snap. He was not a patient person. And they were seriously testing what little of it he had. They strode up the stairs, and parted their ways with Mila on her floor, before going up to Yuri’s. 

When they finally reached his door, he unlocked it, yanking it open with far more force than needed. And it did not escape Jean’s notice.

“Is there something wrong, princess?” he asked him, toeing off his shoes, and looking at him with a worried expression, while Yuri switched the light on. 

“What the fuck is going on?” he asked in lieu of an answer. And Jean frowned, but it was not in confusion. He could tell his boyfriend knew exactly what Yuri was referring too.

“It’s nothing, Yuri.” Jean told him “Really.”

But Yuri was not having any of it. He just gritted his teeth, feeling his nostrils flare, before he stepped closer to the idiot, his latest growth spurt allowing him to look at him square in the eye. 

“Tell me.” he snarled “It was enough to have both you and Mila acting like morons so I’m fucking sure it’s something I want to know.”

He was ready to fight with Jean, to argue his way until he got an answer, but his boyfriend just deflated, sagging his shoulders and bowing his head.

“Log in on your social media.” he told him, and Yuri frowned in surprise. But Jean said nothing more, he just walked to the sofa and plopped down on it, looking tired, and dejected.

“Jean…” he began, frowning as he took a step towards the sofa

“Just do it.” he exhaled, and Yuri blinked twice but he was already fishing his cellphone from his pocket and unlocking the screen.

Jean’s eyes were closed, but he knew the exact moment Yuri had logged in. There was a moment of silence, and then a string of furious Russian that couldn’t have been anything other than insults, echoed in the silent apartment. He could only imagine how colourful they were. 

His fingers gripped the fabric of his shorts, knuckles white in spite of his summer tan. Jean knew he should try to relax, but there was a surge of restlessness inside him. One he was familiar with. And no matter how hard he tried he could not stop his mind from spiralling into trains of thought that only made his hands clench tighter and his breaths come harder. 

He had avoided dealing with this for too long. 

He should have told Yuri.

How angry would he be? Mila said it would piss him off, and she had known him for far longer. And even if she hadn’t said anything, the almost constant muttering of Russian in the background was clue enough of how utterly furious Yuri was in that moment. And Jean wondered if he would be soon on the receiving end of it. He had done it to not ruin the scarce days they could afford together. To spare Yuri the anger and disgust of reading what people said about them. But would Yuri understand? 

It was slander, Jean knew, but it did not made his skin crawl with less unease and or stop his stomach from turning. Because the world, the crowds who had always been there to support him, whom Jean had dedicated most of his work, they were not cheering happily for them. They were not on their side. They were not cherishing them, instead tearing both into shreds, and dissecting everything, every nuance, every detail, painting it in the worst possible light. And it made bile rise up his gullet. He could taste it on his tongue while he watched the back of his eyelids, waiting for the storm to break. For Yuri’s insults to turn to him. To be accused of withholding things from him. 

Would their relationship survive this? 

He had not stopped to wonder about that, but as he listened to the harsh sound of Yuri stomping through his studio apartment, muttering curses, and huffing, Jean began to wonder if he had perhaps made a bigger mistake than he had thought. And his chest became suddenly too tight. With each passing moment it grew increasingly harder to let his breaths through. Detachedly he knew what was going on, but he could hardly focus on anything other than the ever louder sound of Yuri’s steps. 

His shoulders twitched whenever he got too close. It was a booming sound, thunderclaps in the dead of the night. And the shudder than ran down his skin was cold. 

_ He  _ was cold. 

Jean didn’t even realise he had bent over his knees, curling over them, until there were hands there, prying him away from his thighs, and Yuri’s voice pushed at him, telling him to breathe. He realised he had not been breathing, that his chest was a vice and his heart was kicking wildly inside it. It was a faint realisation, barely on the edge of his spiralling consciousness. But he clung to it and listened to Yuri’s voice grew steadier. He counted breaths, and his hand was rubbing soothing circles between his shoulderblades.

Jean’s heart was racing, hammering erratically through his ribcage. Yuri could feel it under his palm, and his own pulse threatened to match it. But he kept counting breaths, much like Otabek had done for him, a lifetime ago in the smelly locker room of the arena where the GPF had been held. And in that moment Yuri admired his best friends calm demeanour back then. Because seeing Jean reduced to this shivering, heaving, mess was the most fucking scary thing. Just the act of keeping his voice even was difficult. 

Yuri steeled himself, focusing on counting, even though it seemed endless. Like ages had passed since he had dropped his phone and asked Jean what was wrong. 

It had took him no time to recognise what it was. 

His hands were trembling, but he willed them to steady. 

Bit by excruciating bit, Jean’s breaths calmed down. His whole body grew limp, and Yuri pulled him closer, circling his arms around him. Jean’s head fell on his shoulder.

“Are you thirsty?” Yuri asked him softly, remembering the bottle of water Otabek had put into his hand after that first time.

Jean nodded, and Yuri slowly disentangled from him, walking towards the kitchen. His body was working on autopilot, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of water. He walked back to the sofa where Jean had now laid down, head on the armrest, and sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. He looked exhausted. 

He had nothing but contempt for his own weakness, but looking at Jean, the unflippable, always cheerful, grinning idiot he was in love with, crumble like that, it hurt in ways he had not known possible. 

Yuri remembered how it felt. But seeing it was terrible. Worse than experiencing it himself.

Swallowing down his emotions, he handed him the bottle, and Jean sat up, making space for him on the couch. He watched him gulp down half of the bottle in one go, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, before he spoke.

“Are you…” he cleared his throat “Are you okay?”

Jean looked at him, lowering the half empty bottle, and gingerly placing it onto the coffee table. He saw him sigh.

“I’m sorry.” Jean said, far too quietly “I should have told you earlier. About the mess on the internet.”

Yuri blinked, almost shaking his head in confusion. He had nearly forgotten about the absolute shitton of crap he had read once he had logged in on twitter and later facebook. He hadn’t gone to tumblr, but he could imagine it was probably the same fucking bullshit. 

Caught in the sudden recollection of just  _ how pissed off  _ he was at their combined fanclubs, Yuri almost missed the apology.

“What the fuck are you apologising for?” he asked harshly, then after a beat he lowered his voice, narrowing his eyes as he asked “How long have you known?” 

He was starting to understand Jean’s reaction.

“My sister told me a week ago, more or less.” he replied, lowering his head “I… I didn’t want you to see what they are writing about us, about you. It’s… it  _ sickens  _ me. And I know you must be angry with me for not saying anything. You have every right to be. But I’d do it again. You’re  _ not  _ the things they say…”

“Of course I’m fucking not! Are you stupid?” Yuri replied, incensed “Who do you take me for? If I gave a shit about what they write about me, I don’t know, I would have fucking quit skating or some shit. Look, my fans are morons, your fans are morons too, in fact everyone, including the pres is just a bunch of fucking idiots!”

Yuri was aware that he was yelling, but he just couldn’t stop it. He was so  _ angry _ . Rage was a living thing inside him, roaring madly. But when he looked at Jean, the latter looked cowed, eyes downcast, and shoulders hunched. And the sight made his anger suddenly drop, as a chokehold of guilt made its way around his throat.

“I’m not angry at you.” Yuri found himself muttering “Idiot.”

“You’re not?” Jean’s head whipped up fast, and Yuri shook his head in exasperation.

“No, you absolute idiot. I’m angry at those sanctimonious bastards...”

“That’s a very big word there.” Jean teased, and Yuri glared, but at the same time a small smile broke on his face. Because if Jean was teasing him, no matter how weakly, it meant he was getting back to himself.

“Fuck you.” he replied flatly, but there was no heat to it. 

“It was horrible to read that.” Jean admitted “I’m not used to that kind of attention. My fans…I always had people supporting me.” he sighed “But now I have people accusing me of…” 

Yuri had no patience for this.

“Fuck them!” he exclaimed, pulling Jean by his t-shirt and kissing him “They don’t matter. I don’t give a fuck about what they have to say. They can stick their opinions up their asses for all I care. Which is where they fucking belong, being the absolute crap they are!”

Jean was looking at him with an expression that was too fucking vulnerable, and it made his arms clutch the idiot and pull him in the most tight of hugs. His heart was swelling even as it beat madly, and when he felt Jean’s arms clutch him in the same vice-like grip, Yuri knew everything was going to be alright. He may be an idiot, but he was Yuri’s idiot.

And they were together in this.

 

The plane ascended rapidly, and Jean felt the now familiar unease in his stomach while he looked at Saint Petersburg growing smaller and smaller underneath him. There was more than just change of altitude that made him feel like he was on the verge of nausea. He kept his eyes glued on the small window and the clouds which were now covering patches of the Russian city. Before he knew it they were no longer above Saint Petersburg, and Jean felt his stomach constrict.

He had never been so loath to go home. Not only he was leaving Yuri behind, and it would be weeks before the latter would fly to Montreal again, but Jean still felt so raw after the events which had unfolded the night before. Yuri’s anger, Jean’s panic. It had left him drained, and now he was already flying home. Leaving Russia with a gut feeling that things were not resolved, no matter how much Yuri had insisted it was alright. That he was not angry at Jean. 

He could feel it crawling under his skin, the apprehension about the future. 

He peeled his eyes from the blue of the morning sky and pulled his phone out. He unlocked it and started looking at the photos they had taken. One more beautiful than the other. Hair glowing like spun gold and Yuri’s smile, wide and happy. It made Jean’s heart stutter, to think he had put it there. Yuri had been smiling at him,  _ because  _ of him. Those first two days with Yuri had been nothing short of perfect, and Jean wished they had stayed there, stuck in an endless moment of happiness. Captured in the timelessness of a picture. 

But good things could not last. Something always had to be there to sour them. And their bliss had ended in a heavy night of anger and raised voiced. Perhaps they had not fought, but Jean was afraid that the memories of their time in Saint Petersburg would always taste like the bile he had felt on his tongue the night before. That whenever he would remember the glimmer of Yuri’s hair in the not quite sunlight of the white night, at the same time he would recall the way his face had twisted in anger.

And how afraid Jean had been that he he had truly fucked up this time.

His phone had gone dark, the screen locking itself, and he stared at the dim reflection on the plastic. He was truly waiting for the other shoe to drop, wasn’t he? The optimism he had been feeling had always been phony, just a veneer to conceal the fears that had never stopped festering underneath. The uncertainties. Because the happier he was the greater were the stakes. Jean wanted to trust everything was going to be alright. He truly did. It was what JJ Style was about. Trusting yourself, working hard to overcome your obstacles, and never losing faith.

Two years ago Jean had truly believed in that. But then Barcelona had happened, Isabella had broken up with him, and suddenly all the certainties had been pulled from underneath his feet. He was happy, Yuri made him happier than he had ever thought he could be. But he was also scared. Terribly, paralysingly scared of the future. Of losing it all.

He didn’t want to. He wanted to cling to it with every fiber of his being. But when once he would have trusted it was enough, that with enough willpower anything could be done, any goal could be achieved, he no longer did.

Everything was uncertain. Everything could change in the blink of an eye. And their not-quite argument the night before had shown him how frail it all was.

It scared him.

 

The afternoon was trickling by, the sun still shining quite brightly through the large windows of the rink. There was no music playing, and only the sound of Yuri’s blades cut through the quiet of the large dome. Mila was on a water break, typing something on her phone, and Georgi had left to do a couple of hours of ballet. This season was probably going to be his last one, and he was trying to go out with a bang. Yuri could only hope  it would not involve sobbing on the ice again, or some other similar shit. 

He rolled his eyes, bending down in a cantilever as he glided across the rink. Katsudon was on the on the ice too, but the old man was trying to correct something about a figure or another. Yuri didn’t really care. It involved far more touching than necessary, so he averted his eyes and kept working on his moves in the field. 

His newly minted coach had mostly avoided Yuri, ever since he had stormed into the rink, after seeing Jean off at the airport, and Yuri couldn’t help feeling begrudgingly grateful for the much needed space he was being given. His temper was anything but manageable today, but no one seemed surprised. Not a single lash had been batted at the sight of a pissed off Yuri, stomping his way to the ice. And it was for the best. He felt ready to chew someone’s head off.

After learning of those dickheads and their fucking unwanted shit opinions, Yuri had found out some of their fellow skaters had been waging wars in the fandom, defending Jean and him, and telling their fanclubs to back the fuck off. Which made Yuri begrudgingly grateful to the hag, amongst others. So it was for the best no one - namely Mila - approached him today. Because he would have lashed at her. And then he would have probably felt like shit, because in spite of the popular opinion, Yuri  _ did  _ have a fucking conscience. 

So he had let anger fuel him, and he had practised jumps for hours to no end, unable to get anywhere close to the peace of mind necessary to skate his routines. The night before had left him with a fury that beckoned to be released. But even as he seethed, Yuri could not help remembering the way Jean had looked at him. 

He had expected him to be angry with him. It may had peeved him, to be kept in the dark, but he was far more pissed off with the way Jean now seemed to walk on fucking eggshells around him, then about the whole thing. Yuri shook his head, trying not to think about the fucking cautiousness Jean had sported that morning. It made him want to kick some sense into the idiot.

The sudden sound of his phone vibrating on the bench, snapped him out of his thoughts.

It was too long to be a text notification, which meant it was a call. And no one really ever called him. But his thoughts about Jean were still on the forefront of his mind, and what if it was him? Before he even finished thinking, Yuri was already at the barrier, putting his skate guards before he stepped off the ice. 

He strode towards the bench, and picked up his phone. And blinked.

It was not Jean. 

An unfamiliar landline number, Moscow prefix, flashed on his screen, and Yuri frowned, but still accepted the call.

“Hello.” he said.

“Oh hello, Yuri Nikolaevich, is that you, boy?” the voice was that of a woman, old if the cracking of it was any indication, and Yuri’s frown deepened. There was something familiar about it, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“Yes.” he replied, still frowning “Who is this?”

“Sorry, my boy, Katya Ivanovna on the phone” she told him, and he blinked in confusion, but then she added “Your  _ dedushka’s  _ neighbour.” And Yuri suddenly remembered where she was familiar from. She had an apartment on the same floor as his Grandfather, and she would cook that tasty borscht, often trading it for his Grandfather’s pirozhki. 

“Katya Ivanovna, I’m sorry ma’am, I didn’t recognise your voice.” he told her, forcing himself to be polite, because he was never going to hear the end of it from his Grandfather if he didn’t. 

“It’s alright, Yurka. I… Your Grandfather gave me your number in case I needed it.” she told him, then after a pause “He… well, he collapsed earlier, and we had to call an ambulance” Yuri felt his blood drain from his face while his heart jumped in his throat. ”He’s in the hospital.”

“Is he… alright?” he stammered, barely more than a whisper.

“I don’t know, Yurka.” she said in a worried voice “I’m not family, they wouldn’t tell me a thing.”

Yuri swallowed.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” he said, already unlacing his skates as he spoke “Thank you for calling Katya Ivanovna.”

They said their goodbyes, and his hands were trembling, but he managed to untie the skates and push his feet into his trainers, leaving everything but his phone on the bench as it was, and already tapping on his screen, looking for the earliest flight to Moscow. He could feel his breaths come in huffs, but he had no time to fall apart. He had to get the fuck out of there as soon as he could.

Faintly he registered Victor calling his name, but he ignored it, striding into the locker room and quickly pulling his belongings. He didn’t have much with him, but he had no time to pack. And he didn’t give a single fuck. The only thing that mattered was going to his grandfather. And finding out if he was okay.

Fuck. What if he was not? What if he was not okay?

His hands were trembling and his duffel bag fell on the floor. Cursing loudly, he scooped it up in his arms. He had no time to waste. He had to get to Moscow as soon as humanly possible. And call the hospital in the meanwhile. They  _ had  _ to tell him how he was. He didn’t care who he had to scream at on the phone, but he  _ was  _ going to find that out before he boarded the plane.

Fuck, he needed to call a cab, too. 

It was too much, but in spite of the ripples of  _ terror  _ shivering under his skin, Yuri had to fucking keep his shit together. 

He was almost at the door of the rink when he heard Victor’s shouts closing in on him. And before he had the time to walk out of the building, a hand was grabbing his forearm. He tried to yank himself free, but Victor’s fingers were strong.

“What’s happening Yurio?” he asked him, azure eyes staring at him in a mixture of worry and bewilderment that made Yuri almost forget how insufferable he could be at times, and he actually stopped struggling, looking at him squarely

“Granpa’s in the hospital.” he told him, and his voice wavered only barely “I have a flight in less than two hours.”

He almost expected his coach to protest, but Victor just nodded.

“Let me get the car keys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene was inspired by this amazing [fanart](https://twitter.com/con_potata/status/830768919824601089) by [con_potata](https://twitter.com/con_potata)

**Author's Note:**

> I borrowed the names for the Leroy siblings from this amazing pliroy fic: [ Second-place Victory](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8756374/chapters/20071615) by [NinjaMatty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NinjaMatty/pseuds/NinjaMatty)


End file.
